by Chelsea Dingman
Bent to anger my whole life, a herd
of horses pounding down the highwayside.
Their hooves, prayerful. Now, the anger
is not my own. A man’s anger: the switch
of the tail. The fire in the brand. The dark
stalls that it leads him to. Neon-lit. Dank.
The man needs attention I can’t give him.
As anger harnesses all energy, the horses
pound past another exit, tornado in tow.
I don’t know how to say love when I mean ruin.
The landscape, bright but cold. Where I was
sleeping, he forgot who he was. He turned
from light to air as I watched. Now, wind
enters me from all points. Nothing is ahead
for the horses, yet they run as if they know
heaven. The horizon, split. Already in the past,
anger is a loop of sound. Horns. The horses,
galloping toward their own extinction.
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Chelsea Dingman’s first book, Thaw, was chosen by Allison Joseph to win the National Poetry Series (University of Georgia Press, 2017). Her second poetry collection, Through a Small Ghost, won The Georgia Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from the University of Georgia Press (February, 2020). She is also the author of the chapbook, What Bodies Have I Moved (Madhouse Press, 2018). Her work is forthcoming in The Kenyon Review and The American Poetry Review, among others. Visit her website: www.chelseadingman.com.