On Beating a Dead Horse

by Taylor Sicko

I hardly noticed.

The whipping wind

playing tug of war with my hair.

Pushing the red jacket hood clean off my head.

Over

and over

and over.

And who made a hood this large anyway?

I suspect we invented drawstrings for this very reason.

I was distracted.

Thoughts scattered

like the shit I've almost stepped in.

Over

and over

and over.

More turbulent than the air around me

but life has a way of pulling you back in.

So when I allowed my eyes to roam

dusty boots followed their gaze up the hill

to the dead horse

giving itself back to the earth.

Bones still sharp

against the fragile blades

of spring's new grass.

And it's jarring really

to see something so unexpectedly intimate.

But this is why poets bow their head to symbolism

for it's simply just a slap in the face

you accidentally liked too much.

And I was in the process of running away.

Like the little girl I still am,

defiant

and questioning

and always egging on.

If I'm being honest,

I never thought I'd have to look it in the eye

to own up to what I've done,

to question the blood on my hands.

And I wept

and wept

and wept.

Unsure what

of all the things

to grieve for.