Lyn Lifshin Sleeping With Horses tho I never have, I dream of such warm flanks, pulse of blood deep enough to blur night terror. I want my own mare, sleek, night colored to block memories of the orchard of bones, the loved-lost under leaves, under a quilt of guilt. I think of cats, long slept with then gone, how the Egyptians buried not only wives but favorite pets near them to cushion their trip to the underworld. I want this mare, velvety as the dream mare’s nose, nuzzling my skin in the black that braids us into one so I won’t move unless she does

---