This is not the horse. It is the poem,
even if it calls out for its sister,
even if it walks across the land
loving tall grasses and alfalfa
and is wild with its herd
speaking in ways the human mind
can’t hear
so another part of the human
translates this animal in America,
the beloved partner of a woman
or man, knowing the herds of buffalo,
the loss of creation, the missing ones
who cannot be returned,
and so it longs to be this
translation
of life in the first light of morning
in the tall grasses of the prairie,
the hilltops from which it sees
there is no freedom here, not anymore
in the mustang’s changed history,
in the language that asks, What do you know
about this world, do you remember
the forgotten language wild,
can you still call it?