Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Horseflies by Robert Wrigley

from THE IDAHO REVIEW
2005 Pushcart Prize XXIX Best of the Small Presses

Deviantart by ehioe


After the horse went down
.....the heat came up
and later that week
.....the smell of its fester yawed,
an open mouth of had-been air
.....our local world was licked inside of, and I,

the boy who'd volunteered at twilight--
.....shunts of chawed cardboard
wadded up my nostrils
.....and a dampened bandana
over my nose and mouth--
.....I strode then

into the ever-purpler sink
.....of rankness and smut,
a sloshful five-gallon bucket of kerosene
.....in my right hand,
a smoking railroad fusee
.....in my left,
and it came over me like water then,

into my head-gaps and gum
.....rinds, into the tear ducts
and taste buds and even
.....into the last dark tendrils
of my howling, agonized hair
.....that through the windless half-light
hoped to fly from my very head,

an would have, I have no doubt, had not
.....the first splash of kerosene
launched a seething skin
.....of flies into the air
and onto me, the cloud of them
.....so dense and dark my mother in the distance
saw smoke and believed as she had feared

I would, that I had set my own
.....fool and staggering self aflame,
and therefore she fainted and did not see
.....how the fire kicked
the other billion flies airborne
.....exactly in the shape
of the horse itself,

which rose for a brief quivering
.....instant under me, and which for a pulse thump
at least, I rode--in a livery of iridescence,
.....in a mail of exoskeletal facets,
wielding a lance of swimming lace--
.....just as night rode the light, and the bones,
and a sweet, cleansing smoke to ground.


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