We interrupt this NaPoWriMo for this

Becoming A Horse

by Ross Gay July 2012 The Sun 

It was dragging my hands along its belly,

loosing the bit and wiping the spit

from its mouth that made me

a snatch of grass in the thing’s maw,

a fly tasting its ear. It was

touching my nose to his that made me know

the clover’s bloom, my wet eye to his that

made me know the long field’s secrets.

But it was putting my heart to the horse’s that made me know

the sorrow of horses. Made me

forsake my thumbs for the sheen of unshod hooves.

And in this way drop my torches.

And in this way drop my knives.

Feel the small song in my chest

swell and my coat glisten and twitch.

And my face grow long.

And these words cast off, at last,

for the slow honest tongue of horses.