When the vet led her, stumbling from her stall,
ribs cinching her threadbare sides,
she still wanted to eat. Now blades of grass dangle
like ribbons from her bluish lips.
The other horses, quiet as statues, stare
from the far paddock, heads raised, ears pricked.
They seem to understand.
She will not get up again.
I can see my own reflection
in the hardened glass of her eye
like a smudged thumbprint,
whorl of longing. What frightens me, my love,
is not dying but dying hungry:
I don’t know what it’s like not to want you.