What if this time I do 
write about my body, the absence of 
           fear, the folds 
                                  of the field where I stand
           under sun, pitchfork in hand, picking
                       manure from grass? 	
                                                       What if I turn 
                       off the motor, let the four-by-
                       four sit quiet? In the quiet
              will the horses come, twining single-file over
hard-packed dirt?
                                           Will they 
              arrive, little silences, warm to the touch, living
                            with mud, old aches, and stone bruises? 
              When they arrive, can I touch them and know that
even if I never heal, I will find pain not 

              changed, but different—no more, no
less—somehow warmer than 
                                   I’d recalled, 	
                          familiar?