Dot Fang's Flesh-Eating Horse


With a newly shaped soul
resembling a furnace,
he stepped off the train.
Her ghost, the firefly femme fatale,

wandered away from the signals,
there was smoke coming from the ash gray lights,
then towards the bedgrubs and their afflicted images.
Ghosts report false miracles,

as if they were semi-automatic rifle shots,
with fingers stacked and crossed to the bone
resting.
The horse, afraid of her, imagines itself an insect---
a gray locust, almost

drowned in an old catbox, green and filled with rainwater,
then rescued by some co-axial cable hung over the wall.
He holds onto everything with his teeth.
The horse really thinks this
while her ghost is denied a ride past the loading dock.

It floats above the self-adjusting ramps, picking
holes in an old feedbag speechless. The horse remembers
her white flowers outlined in black magic marker--
locked in sanctuary.


Mexican