When Fernando closes eyes
he sees Josefina, hair thick and sleek
like the pelt of an otter. He smells
the blooms of her body in the meadow
of her belly, the spicy scent
between her breasts lined with fluffy powder
like the nest of a sparrow.
He hears the thump of bread dough as
she kneads, stretches, shapes.
He feels the lips of her pony
nuzzling sugar from his palm.
He remembers the cabin’s hot oven,
the cold nights. The spring flood.
He tastes mud of the river,
mud of decay. He wonders
where Josefina came to rest, never found,
not a trace. Perhaps the pony knows,
the pony who was captured trying
to cross the Interstate highway,
the wild broken-hearted pony
who made the six o’clock news.
When Fernando closes his eyes,
Josefina is there, her body
dusty with flour, resting abed
just a few moments, bread rising
under a dish towel, pony
standing at the window hoping
for a carrot, playful otters sliding
down riverbank to the sun-speckled water.
……
First published in I-70 Review
photo by Christine Sponchia
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