He’s beautiful —
but his legs are wrong, says my mother
when I show her a picture
of what my friend the sculptor made
out of chicken wire and plaster, a life-size horse.
In a pick-up, my friend and I circled the marsh,
beast in the bed she rode
as if she was a fox chaser.
She didn’t mean to look so fascist.
What made the horse wrong
was the angle of his knees
or something off with the fetlocks
or other slight accommodations made to support
the weight of the medium.
That horses walk at all is a wonder.
That we ride them, another. If he was real —
You’d have to shoot him, says my mother.
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