Her roughly hewn hands

crease like rhino skin around

the horse's bridle. She

runs fingers through its coat,

its mane, along shovel-sharp

hooves. Elysium washed in gold foil,

from the old books

she gave me. The horse

nickers when I step over

spearpoints of grass to reach

them. "Are you okay here?"

I ask her, the horse, the splintered

air. She turns to me and smiles.

"I've taken the arrow out. He'll

be fine." She presses her

calloused palm against the horse's

mouth and he exhales

warm velvet breath

through her brow.

Just a poem I wrote about a friend who passed away.