Creek House

There is no sound
but the foal’s tortured breathing
and a soft rain that has begun
to fall against
our hair and faces.

we slowly drag the foal’s body
on the jacket
through the grass
towards the centre
of the paddock.

Julia stops and gestures
to a dark opening
in the earth

and I see that it is
an empty creek.

the foal will be safe here.

the creek is forty acres
from Julia’s house
and she says her dad never
comes here anymore.

I step down carefully
onto the eroded dirt and rocks.

Julia takes one side of the jacket
and I take the other,
lifting the wounded body
from the earth
and slowly lowering it down.

the foal feels heavy
as it falls into my arms
and against my chest.
it makes no sound

but I can feel its breath
against my skin
and smell the panic
escaping from its coat.

Julia takes a small torch from her pocket —
inside the creek
are rusted, burnt-out cars
and other parts
separated from their bodies.

engines the colour
of horse manure
that melt into
the dark landscape.

doors, windows, wheels.

seats torn open
and crawling with insects.

there is the shell
of an old Ford model
resting against one of the banks,
missing its interior,

only a cracked roof
and a space
where one of the back doors
had once been.

we pull the foal inside
and let it rest
underneath the roof.

we stand on either side
of its body
and as we sit down
our faces almost touch.

I watch its chest rise and fall,
I notice the area
between its legs.

the foal is a colt.

I can hear the rain
beginning
to fall harder against
the metal roof
above our heads.

no more pain.
no more blood.
no more wire.