by Lorette C. Luzajic
The pale mare, rising out of the deep. Black bayou, floating past midnight, flickering over the horizon. I know nothing of horses, of canter and amble, of hoofs and steeds. Once I saw a dead one at the side of the road on the way to Oaxaca. Crumpled and white. The equine jaw, jagged, upturned, blooming red flowers.
Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, publishes, and teaches small fictions and prose poetry. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review and The Mackinaw.
