We’ll Bury Both

Painted horse tied to the cherry tree

out front. // Pushed in place. // Views

from the kitchen table.

Hatchet in hand—

been there since birth // I guess.

Dad says it’s past use and yet

runs thumb over grain

under all this moonlight.

(a shameful hand-me-down)

Swing, brother, swing

and keep it dull.

Don't cut too deep now.

Better take it slow

or they'll catch on // those

spectators—plaster skin and eyes

like ours.

Watch that trunk.

Steady that arc.

Cleave its skin

and see it run like // rivers after

spring has come down the hillside.

Notice Horse and Tree:

Reared Up // Bent Down // Bleeding

Their weeping calls

to flies and mosquitoes—

and all the white folk come running.

Our native reaping,

cooked up right,

is cherry pie for breakfast

with Cool-Whip on the side.

A family recipe // passed down

like this for generations.

Savor it // before they take it back

and we call it thieving.