Burning Season

Rebecca Loudon

I was afraid of the rabbits. I wanted to tell you about horses,
how leather felt in my mouth, the musky barn taste.

You were my witness. You saw nothing. You could not describe
halter, hoof pick, bit or blanket. I wanted to tell you everything.

You faced the door as flames hissed and tumbled across
the grass. A clover-poisoned cow bellowed on her side.

I could not nurse her. I could not hold anything.
A nail pierced the sole of my soft boot

and the horses quaked in their stalls. I wanted you
to be my witness. I wanted you to listen.

I wanted you to see the dun crush of rabbits
pouring out as the fields burned.