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