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Horse Drowned in a Sea of Blue Wildflowers
On the slab of the grave on the Day of the Dead a warm can of Coors. Pumpkin empanadas in a waxed paper bag. A few spots of grease bleeding through. A few ghosts. Miners rising from earth to light at the end of their underground shift. Soaked workshirts and boots. Laces impossibly knotted. Puzzles for their daughters to untangle. Horse drowned in a sea of blue wildflowers. How a Spanish poet from the last century might say it. But it was stench and the cloud of flies thick in June alfalfa which led us down the road with no name. Into the tall sawgrass. Toward something hidden and fetid that told us what wed find when we parted the blades. Blue wildflowers ebbing from a black leather face. From eyes looking at nothing and the curious handful of undigested straw beneath a decomposing ribcage. The bodys unfinished business. Nearby, a fieldhands roofless shack. A couple of mud walls slumped around the abandoned bedspring left inside. Its pallet of blossoms the color of empty sky above torn sacks of nitrate. How small the infinite grows. Wind blusters through limbs of bent cottonwood as if an ocean roars there. We know better because someone pulled a sheet over his yellow face, and words change nothing. What a cheap revelation. This bag of sweetbread no one opens. |
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