right hand pointing

S a r a h   N i c h o l s 

Smoke Horse

After Henri Rousseau’s War (Cavalcade of Death)

I had always dreamt of a horse, so 

tonight I rode out on a beast of smoke, and

I can still taste the heavy metal of blood.

Not copper. Iron. The horse-grime

eased into my clothes.

Their rigor was like Antietam.

Pale against the obsidian cloud.