my mark is made upon your noble neck
muscles are locked, claws sing through your flesh
I am the awful terror of morning.
your pretty teeth would rend me if they could.
my face is held in your maw. You are fire
and sharp, acrid grass, and all things that hurt.
I set my power against your stillness
I try to make your calming heft descend
you are baptising my mane in the stream
I want to drown your terrible beauty
as thrashing strikes now slow to an embrace
though blood runs quick, I do not feel afraid
your bite is dull as the world, cud-chewer
your hoof, it pounds my body like weather.
though I can’t breathe, I will not let you go.
the plain is still and quiet, our trauma
allowed time denied the dying hour
your body goes limp. you have let me go.