FOR BETTY BIRD AND SUSAN THOMPSON
Rubbing the bristle brush across his backbone,
securing the bridle, riding his stretched-out body
on the dirt road to town (past the Texaco station),
and following his head through hair grass and cornflowers,
she was some kind of in-between creature,
browned from the sun. To the sightless,
at the State School for the Deaf and Blind,
knowledge came in small words—under, over,
next to, inside—but it was the clip-clop of Jelly’s
hooves, his fragrant mane and muscle memory
that carried her forward, hollering, Run, Jelly. Run!
Then, with one soft-firm Whoa, he did, though she
was only six, her child-hands gripping the reins tight,
hearts thumping a testimony to the love feeling.