The Block Horse

Philip Matthews

Petal, dream​ ​in​ the great hallway

in​ which​ ​you ate

​vanilla​ ​ice​ ​cream

from​ ​a​ ​chalice​​ ​when

you​ ​first​ ​came​ ​to​ ​court

with​ ​your​ ​uncle,​ ​a​ ​wise

man​ ​with​ ​moderate​ ​time

for​ ​children,​ ​the​ ​King

of​ ​Clubs,​ ​resting​ ​his​ ​head

on​ ​his​ ​elbow.​ ​Petal,​ ​tiny

spoon​ ​to​ ​the​ ​rescue

of​ ​the​ ​crushed​ ​bean-

people.​ ​A​ ​frivolous

story​ ​you​ ​told​ ​to​ ​feel

kept,​ ​kept​ ​as​ ​a​ ​lapdog.

I​ ​do​ ​not​ ​blame​ ​you​ ​if

you’d​ ​like​ ​to​ ​take​ ​a​ ​moment

to​ ​remember​ ​the​ ​ice​ ​cream.

Perhaps​ ​you’d​ ​like​ ​to​ ​stand

in​ ​this​ ​doorway​ ​in​ ​your

ragged​ ​robe​ ​and​ ​let​ ​the​ ​cold​ ​wind

over​ ​your​ ​tongue.

You​ ​can​ ​pretend​ ​the​ ​fur

of​ ​your​ ​arms​ ​is​ ​a​ ​worn

fur,​ ​fur​ ​of​ ​another

animal.​ ​You​ ​can​ ​cast​ ​your

howling​ ​eyes​ ​away​ ​from​ ​your

lot​ ​and​ ​stroke

your​ ​imaginary​ ​doll,​ ​her

hair​ ​milky​ ​as​ ​slit​ ​apples.

Petal,​ ​how​ ​did​ ​you​ ​get​ ​so

desperate,​ ​no​ ​silver

to​ ​your​ ​name,​ ​no​ ​silver​ ​even

to​ ​buy​ ​the​ ​green​ ​candle​ ​you’d

need

to​ ​cast​ ​this​ ​spell​ ​for​ ​money.

​drawing

the​ ​dollar​ ​sign​ ​into​ ​the​ ​dust,

pulling​ ​your​ ​sleeping​ ​mat

over​ ​it.​ ​How​ ​luxurious

you​ ​have​ ​a​ ​sleeping​ ​mat.​ ​How

luxurious​ ​you​ ​can​ ​wipe​ ​away

dust​ ​from​ ​your​ ​floor,​ ​even​ ​if​ ​it​ ​is​ ​with

your​ ​fingers.​ ​How​ ​luxurious

you​ ​have​ ​this​ ​stable​ ​with​ ​a

door​ ​to​ ​the​ ​weather,​ ​purple

storm​ ​leaning​ ​in​ ​on​ ​the

city.​ ​Here​ ​is​ ​a​ ​stone

to​ ​sleep​ ​with.​ ​Here​ ​is​ ​your

uncle’s​ ​first​ ​knuckle.​ ​The​ ​revolution

brews​ ​in​ ​the​ ​city’s​ ​papered​ ​walls,​ ​smart

soldiers​ ​budding​ ​in​ ​every​ ​corner,

their​ ​fingernails​ ​painted​ ​with​ ​sunlight,

starlight,​ ​lantern-light​ ​in​ ​secret

meetings.​ ​Petal,​ ​be​ ​ready

when​ ​they​ ​show​ ​their​ ​faces

at​ ​your​ ​door,​ ​adolescent

and​ ​willing,​ ​a​ ​question​ ​framed

to​ ​your​ ​lips​ ​and​ ​the​ ​knuckle-stone

containing​ ​its​ ​desert​ ​to​ ​be

thrown.​ ​They​ ​have​ ​been​ ​knowing

of​ ​your​ ​power​ ​and​ ​want​ ​it,​ ​think

there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​bedful

of​ ​money.​

Petal, wasn’t​ ​he​ ​wise,​ ​your​ ​uncle

who​ ​taught​ ​you​ ​to​ ​read

and​ ​be​ ​still,​ ​block​ ​horse

stationed​ ​in​ ​stall,​ ​stare​ ​ahead​ ​wanting

for​ ​nothing,​

you​ ​walked

the​ ​pasture​ ​in​ ​your​ ​pocket,

like​ ​friends,​ ​bump​ ​of​ ​your

lips​ ​learning​ ​his​ ​language,​ ​rumble

of​ ​his​ ​lips​ ​showing​ ​it​ ​yours,

patiently,​ ​but​ ​firmly.​ ​You​ ​were

a​ ​persistent​ ​machine,​ ​his

favorite

arc​ ​of​ ​the​ ​sky

in​ ​your​ ​eyeball,​ ​a​ ​grey​ ​slate

finance​ ​/​ ​marvel​ ​/​ ​shovel

with​ ​which​ ​whole​ ​lines​ ​of​ ​aristocracy​ ​were

uncovered,​ ​drug​ ​to​ ​light.​ ​Just

my​ ​Joan​ ​of​ ​Arc​ ​screaming,​ ​Petal,

nothing​ ​new,​ ​the​ ​horse’s​ ​language

in​ ​my​ ​pit-bone.

What​ ​do​ ​we​ ​say?​ ​we​ ​say​ ​hymns,​ ​hymns.