poem
Volume 28, Number 2

Gift Horse

Mid-century, an early spring meant
taking off our shirts between the dunes in April,
desperate as we were to air our skin out 
after months cocooned in wool. Even the sand 
felt good, scratching our backs. We crossed our arms 
behind our heads and watched the mare’s tail clouds 
brush the blue from the sky. Those stretches
of mild weather out of season—such gifts, 
we never thought to check their teeth.


—Michele Leavitt