Ten Pound Heart

And what of the practical part of me,
the part that rises early to draw 
a warm soak bath with Epsom salts
to carry it, sloshing, to the barn,
to the chestnut mare, held in the cross ties,
the scene held in the early, 
pink-blue hours of morning.
Still dark, the light 
of the neighbor’s porch 
visible a mile away.

And what of that part
the part that runs a hand 
down the elegant cannon bone—
the spilled water has made 
my hands so cold, so stiff 
it is hard for me to feel the weakness—
to the hoof, which is hot, 
which is draining black pus, 
which, when pressed, can push the pulse
of a ten pound heart into my hand. 

That part of me is nothing
but a hand to serve: to soak the hoof,
bandage it, to salve a wound 
and wait. To carry water 
to and from the house.
And now look at me.
I hold my head and think of gods,
of men, of words, and I want
nothing to have changed,
everything to have been better.