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Putting the Filly Down
by Christine Gelineau
Dead
small click of a word to last so long.
It's the improbably soft
and lively look
of her mane I won't forget.
The body being small, they
lashed her by the pasterns to a chain
across the empty arms of a bucket loader
and lifted her inverted in the air. The arms
held her out before the tractor like an offering,
and she rode that way to the grave
in stiff dignity, save for the mocking
animation of her mane, silken
and playful in the face of February.
No ceremony or Astroturf disguises here:
this grave is raw-lipped and greedy
as any hole you ever fill
with something you'd spent love on.