Should they not have the best of both worlds?
Her feet of clay gave the lie
To the star burned in our mare’s brow.
Would Parsons’ jackass not rest more assured
That cross wrenched from his shoulders?
We had loosed them into one field.
I watched Sam Parsons and my quick father
Tense for the punch below their belts,
For what was neither one thing or the other.
It was as though they has shuddered
To think, of their gaunt, sexless foal
Dropped tonight in the cowshed.
We might yet claim that it sprang from earth
Were it not for the afterbirth
Trailed like some fine, silk parachute,
That we would know from what heights it fell.