Three Horses

by Elaine Pentaleri

The three horses suddenly
or maybe always are there
beneath the low foliage,
grazing on spring grass,
reincarnated
after the unfortunate incident under the bleachers,
or perhaps the bleachers are an unpleasant mirage
conjured in sleep.
The horses, flicking their long tails
in the languid afternoon heat,
are beautiful
and know the correct responses
to multiple choice questions in arithmetic,
which they deliver in hoofbeats
with astonishing accuracy.
Coming upon them,
their peaceful poetics
and the metaphysics of unstrung theory,
I am compelled to ride one.
I choose the most docile of the three,
grab hold of her abundant mane
and ride off into my past,
back and back into time,
revisiting experience exactly as it once was,
reliving the motives for every act
and thus undoing all regret.
Perhaps this is what dying is.

I wonder if I will ever come back.