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ABIGAIL B. CALKIN
The Washout
On the edge of the creekbed washout
lay the carcassed head of a horse.
On the dried blood
of the stump of her neck
on her white blazed nose
in her nostrils
on her tongue
in her ears
on her eyes
thousands of white segmented maggots
wormed one over another
greedily searching
still fresh meat.
Black flies, blue flies, yellow jackets
dove in the white heat of day to feast
their small buzzing bodies on the blazed head.
Blaze
two days earlier had again
walked on the porch of the cabin,
her head and forefeet in the door,
snorting her presence.
I held my young son in my arms
as he held the carrots Blaze ate.
We patted, she nuzzled.
Today flies lay their eggs as yellow jackets
suck her honeyed head.
Eighteen years later a new neighbor
fetches her water from the spring
in Blaze's washout.
Copyright ABIGAIL B. CALKIN
(all rights reserved; To copy this poem, please contact the poet)
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