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.
Published in Red Fez 2010
This poem also appears on the December 2002
Passage Through August website, edited by
Photograph by Itzhak Ben-Ariel
copyrighted and used with permission
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 HERE