Freeing Dead Horses

My mother weeps from her grave
over my mismatched furniture
and dustballs gathering in dark corners
while I meditate, toes pointed
towards the rumble of dead horses
over my rooftop.

Dust is relative, I say,
in a useless attempt to quiet her.

I speak aloud of the horses,
their manes tangled by the wind
and the blood of slain buffalo,
hearts pounding from that last hunt,
before our houses herded them
deep into the black ground
to dream their memories of freedom.

You're crazy, my mother tells me.

Pris Campbell

Published in Red Fez 2010

This poem also appears on the December 2002
Passage Through August website, edited by
Jon Bohrn.

Photograph by Itzhak Ben-Ariel
copyrighted and used with permission

Music: Ayeko

Itzhak Ben-Ariel was born in Geneva, but has spent most of his life in Israel. His photography addresses the contrast between beauty and danger. Visit his site for breathtaking work. To see even more of his work, click H