There are eight emaciated horses
pressing their faces against the window by your bed
their breath painting streaks of fog on the glass
they neigh when you can't hear them
they lean against each other
or they would collapse.
They've swallowed their own blood
and want to wash themselves in your mouth,
to sleep in the panties you left on the floor,
to climb onto your braces
and walk along them like a railroad track.
When they slip into sleep
they dream of forests
but you tell them only stumps are left
They've come the wrong week
on a quiet night
where a space heater growls in the corner
your heart beats
in the other room
growing bigger than your chest.
The horses drag gifts to your feet;
a grandfather clock
cut in half with an axe,
a tiger that only lives in the dimmest of light,
and a hollow sign
made of words you don't believe anymore.
You wait until they leave,
until the sound of their hooves shrivel down to nothing
and you make sure all the doors are locked.
Ryan Dilbert is a senior contributor to thefootnote.net. His writing has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, ESC!, Mastodon Dentist, and Six Sentences.