From The Model 8 Polysomnograph
I am warned to flee.
I have enough time, just
to take the rope hanging on the halter
of the red mare, throw it around her neck, mount her.
Her hooves clatter on the crushed stone of the road
Her whole body lifts —
we soar over fence and road and are gone,
disappearing deep into the woods,
hunted as we know we must be hunted, for running;
hunted by men in uniforms.
The dream presents a flight manual:
Enter forest.
Be conscious of the trail of hoofmarks you leave.
Be conscious of the slope of the red mare's neck and breathe her horse sweat
and breathe your own fear, and keep breathing.
Navigate stream and rock. Feel the mare's muscles bunch beneath you.
Feel her withers between your legs. Hear the clatter of her hooves
on wet stone.
Hide underground in damp caves carved by water.
Emerge cautiously to find, in the next village,
a blacksmith who will pull the tell-tale shoes off the red mare
and hand them back to you, whispering
Hurry. Run and hide. They are coming.
They want the red mare.
They will take her
from you.
The red mare and I have been running all night.
We are tired of evasion.
We aim for the hunters.
We can see uniform white fear in their eyes; we can smell their bitterness.
At the last moment, they duck
and the body of the red mare lifts.
Her body lifts and soars.
When not writing, M. Frost studies public health. Her poems have appeared in numerous venues, including Philadelphia Stories, Nimrod, Potomac Review, Mannequin Envy, Rose & Thorn, and a previous issue of flashquake. Finishing Line Press published her first chapbook, Cow Poetry and other notes from the field, in 2006. http://www.mfrostwords.com.