When I open this skin, I do not stop
bleeding forever
the blood my father gifted me,
passed down
heavy with the horse for whom he has no name.
That which gallops
forth from the wound
stains all it touches,
all it loves,
dousing even the finest cloth a deep
dark—
not red, never red.
In its eyes
I can taste my father’s withering smile,
his hard hands clasped in what could only be a begging.
He taps a wedding ring
against the rail I’ve side-straddled,
white knuckles
gripping the wretched savior’s
metal arms
spread like Christ across my hips.
Though we are not
destined to become that what bestowed us
this name, I cannot help but avoid the eyes
of every foal that drinks from my cup
I cannot help but swallow
every drop of blood that pours
from my father’s beloved steed
I cannot help but drown
in the loosing of one last arrow, marked at the heart,
whistled by, its gait wide.
—
Andrew Walker is a writer living in Denver, Colorado. His poetry, fiction and CNF has appeared in or is forthcoming from HAD, Santa Clara Review, Eckleburg, Crow & Cross Keys, Crack the Spine, and elsewhere. He reads poetry for No Contact and tweets about writing and punk music @druwalker94.
Photography by: Rex Pickar
