I will never be put out to pasture.
My old horses are put out to pasture,
some old horses are sold for dog food,
I feed dogs, share my food with them.
I might be meat for grizzlies if I stumble
into a nest of cubs. I have some memory
of seamen starving in a dory, drawing lots,
the loser: human steaks.
I will never be put out to pasture
long as I have something to say about it.
When I feed my opera-loving donkeys,
they bray: We prefer you stay inside our fence.
I live in the country, that compared
to the city, where I lived as a child,
is “out to pasture.” Some have drunk
to others only with their eyes.
I drink and graze on Irish daisies that grow
in the countryside, and steel-girdled
cemented cities with my eyes. I want
all things in nature to ride my back.
The oceans are lighter than mountains,
I don’t rear up, buck them off,
I am happy with my burden. Old horse,
I do not want to die fallen in a stall,
it’s better outside, unhitched, reins dangling,
trying to get up on my own four legs.
Now I am just a man, not a metaphor.
I say to myself: Here I am.
I see a ram, horns caught in a thicket—
I free the ram, my hands bleed from thorns.
I do not believe sacrifice is a good cause.
I make a fire that warms me, it’s not a burnt offering,
I have no favorite son.
I will not lay a hand on anyone,
except to comfort her or him.
I am grateful I can rest a while
in the kindness of green and rocky pastures.
—2018