A girl in my class
is effortlessly
unquestioningly worshipped and
loves horses so much
everyone
in her gravitational field
loves horses now.
She brings
painted horse models
to school
bestows them
one by one
upon the worthy.
A growing herd
of prancing beauties
day by day,
more and more
enthusiastically corralled
across smooth desktops.
The luckiest earn
coveted blond equines
preening and posing
manes flowing
in invisible wind.
And my desk is an empty acre.
Burning shame
colors my days.
Excluded from the game
of being included.
Saturday afternoon
my family walks through
the big red doors
of Arnold’s Toy Store,
my heart lunges at
one lonely, untamed horse, tan and dusty
galloping under glass.
I point, eager, eager—
but the ask is caught in my throat.
We’re all being careful today.
One wrong step will detonate
Mom’s land-mine fury at Dad
for disappearing
into drinking last night.
This family stroll down Main Street
his weary bloodshot penance.
Dad points out
train sets
rainbow puzzles
magic kits
and waves stuffed animals
in Christopher’s and Cara’s faces
till they giggle,
unwinding the spring trigger
on Mom’s rage.
Who cares about
plain pretty horses anyway? I
always liked unicorns.