From the Fishouse

Tack settled slowly, not just
slung up. But still. He’s hitched, stomping

holes in the hard snow with his hooves.
His throttle’s not hushed with a halter.

He gets eager, twitchy, skin all
shivery when he isn’t brushed for a while,

so barn-sour he doesn’t want to touch
anything, his itch avoiding others’ fingers, if only

mistakenly. Lonely, now he’s antsy,
angry. Given a chance, he’d up

the ante on me, string me up good,
dead, from my tan boots, hanging

heavy in a pecan tree, a worm web-nest for
my face as it yells out baby

moths to scour a winter
pansy garden down to its tender

stems. It’s hard to handle animals made of evil.
What’s not unspeakable I’d rather not say.

Now he’s shaken free his bridle, taken off.
That’s okay. His sweat’ll clean the winter off him—

once it surfaces, the shed skin
collects in his tracks I won’t follow. He’ll get tired,

gallop-gone. He’ll come back before spring allows
a few things to earn the life they waste