The Mare

I remember the shade where I found her

spent and bruised like the fallen apples.

Like them, she was full of darkness,

full of the sweetness which rushes upon us

so soon after death.

She lay there like a mummy,

like the wreckage of an ancient queen,

mild, yet locked away within herself.

It held me the long afternoon—

the secret fruit, the silken mare—

until the day had passed.

I stood and walked among the goats

with their delicate steps

and fed them apples

so mellow

they burst like hearts before the queen and me.