Mary Biddinger Gray Horse

I wanted to be out in the field
and then I was overwhelmed by the size

of the field, so I wished to be smaller
like the width of a grasshopper

yet even then I would be too large for some
crevices, like the space between

floorboards where the stealth
spiders tucked their legs when anyone

padded by in socks, and though
the room was so dim I wanted no candle

or lantern after lightning hit the window
in my grandfather’s study

which had chestnut cork on all the walls
and we only had one guitar

which I took into the bathroom
so embarrassed at what I was attempting

to play, after Coal Miner’s Daughter lit
me like a hammock left out

in a hail storm, and I would suddenly now
remember riding a gray horse

across the field as a child in new corduroys
while the birds harvested favorite

invisibles and the horizon slipped
out of its off-shoulder blouse and vanished.

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