Bring the Beautiful Horses Some days nothing helps. Some days not even a basket of apples will bring the black horses out of the past, and Christ Pantocrator seems little more than the face of an absurd hippie. (My old man bent toward the gaping mouth. He sniffed, it was confirmed. Nothing would help.) Some days the sweetest words will not bring a blessing from the sky, or sweeten the breakfast table with a smile, or bring the beautiful horses out of the magical past. (Nobody knew death like my father - the Solomons, Wake Island, Guadalcanal. Thirty years prepping bodies in a funeral home.) Some days on the prayer porch the petitions never clear the trees, and there is nothing to do but rock and watch the wind rattle the maples and pin oaks. (When he turned toward my aunt and shook his head, everyone knew it was accomplished.) Some days those beautiful horses will not leave the shadows of their hill. Some days nothing helps. An Absence Near the end, only one thing matters. Yes, it has something to do with the moon and the way the moon balances so nervously on the ridge of the barn. This is the landscape of my childhood - my grandfather's country store, his barn, his pasture. His chicken houses are already falling, but near the end only the one thing matters. It has to do with the prudence of his woods, the way the trembling needles prove the wind. Let's sit here by the fence and watch for the fox that comes each night to the pasture. Imagine how the moon cools the water in the cow pond. Yes, things happen in the cool white spaces, those moments you turn your head - the way the trembling branch suggests the owl, or the print by the pond suggests the fox. Near the end, though, only one thing matters, and nothing, not even the fox, moves as quietly. Hubert Blankenship Needing credit, he edges through the heavy door, head down, and quietly closes the screen behind him. This is Blankenship, father of five, owner of a plow horse and a cow. Out of habit he leans against the counter by the stove. He pats the pockets of his overalls for the grocery list penciled on a torn paper bag, then rolls into a strip of newsprint the last of his Prince Albert. He hardly takes his eyes off his boot, sliced on one side to accommodate his bunion, and hands the list to my grandfather. Bull of the Woods, three tins of sardines, Spam, peanut butter, two loaves of bread (Colonial), then back to the musty feed room where he ignores the hand truck leaning against the wall and hefts onto his shoulder a hundred pound bag of horse feed. He rises to full height, snorting but hardly burdened, and parades, head high, to the bed of his pickup. A Nervous Boy 1 I was a nervous boy, small and nervous. I liked to hide. I sought out places of refuge - close spaces where thick air was a balm for remorse. And there were many secret places between the store and the dog lots, the barn and ball field. The chicken house, for instance, at the top of the path to my grandfather's dog lots, empty for years but still rich with the smell of broilers and feed - a quiet dark enjoyed by rats and rat snakes, spiders, roaches, beetles, earwigs, and once, even a stray dog birthing her litter in the dank sawdust. One day I hid there all afternoon. 2 I hadn't wanted to shoot the rabbit. It sat on a ridge of the pasture, stiff ears reaching for the sky, and even from that distance I could see it trembling. Wind whipped the grass and blew in the stench of dog turds. My stomach turned. My grandfather laid the barrel of his rifle on a fence rail and held the stock to my shoulder. I was a good shot. I sighted the head, I steadied, but I didn't want to shoot that rabbit trembling in perpetual surrender. I inched high, squeezed, and dirt flew up a foot beyond it. My grandfather sighed as though my failure suggested the sort of man I'd be. But I didn't want to shoot that rabbit. He shrugged. He shook his head. He pumped the rifle again and pressed the stock tight against my shoulder. 3 From the chicken house I could hear the horse neighing in his stall, the crows in the pines on the hill above the dog lots. After a while, shouts rose from the ball field at the foot of the hill. But I only wanted to hide. I only wanted the dark, the solitude. I don't recall the shot or the rabbit jumping sideways and falling, only that old man lifting it by the ears and flinging it into the dog lot. I must've shot the rabbit. All Beggars Would Ride for Jane Hirshfield Last night the beautiful horses of my boyhood galloped again into my dream. I especially love the sleek black mare with the white star between her eyes, and remember her grace as she'd trot across the pasture when I stretched my arm over the fence - corn husks, an apple core, such small things, such large joy. I've often wished I had a heart like that. Ah, says my mother-in-law, if wishes were horses . . . Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch Maybe I'll rise from the dead. Or live as a shadow. Or maybe I'll never leave you. At Emeritus an old man plowing the hallway with a three-wheeled walker stopped me and grinned, My goal is to live forever - so far, so good. Maybe we never get enough birdsong, or watery soup and over-steamed veggies. Still, from the prayer porch eternity sometimes looks like a raw deal. Eternal leaf blower and weed whacker? (A few days before he died my old man asked about the yard.) Mostly blue jays at the feeder this morning, rude and rowdy, and a few cardinals dripping off the trees like the bloody tears of Christ. Maybe we only rise again to the good things - honeysuckle, robins, mockingbirds, doves, fireflies toward evening, and along the back fence the steady harping of tree frogs . On the prayer porch, among the icons, such fancy notions. Excerpted from Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch by David Bottoms All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
