dew-eyed Andalusian who was brought to the sanctuary last week,

 

starved and broken.  We whisper Treasure, Rain, Shenandoah, Belezia, Winter,

as we watch for a sign -- a vigorous nod,

 

some licking and chewing, ears

pricked toward our voices.  It's custom to re-name the horses

 

when they come here, but this new girl

is tougher than most.  She offers no quiver

of skin we might take as concession,

 

seems slow to cloak herself

with humanspeak, one more odd

configuration of sweet syllables she'll grow

 

to answer to, siren song

that could lead her anywhere

(a mucked-up stall, a pitted field).

 

One of us wants to try Shalimar next.

Another, who's had her share of losses,

 suggests we ask the horse to tell us

 

her name -- gently touch her neck

or withers, wait and listen,

hold as still as a pasture in full bloom.

 

 

 

Barbara Conrad

copyright 2008