Before we knew, we heard—
the horses shot in the pasture,
clamor receding along the fence line like snow.
A man would tell us later that the depth of everything
was circumstantial, that some things needed to be put down
when they could no longer give to others.
Eventually, the red and the clover became the same.
The field grew over, the tillage swept the froth away.
My brother wrote about cults.
Some were indistinguishable from what we saw
that day, an animal and another animal
and another animal, waiting on their leader.
When the men asked me if I swallowed,
they took notes, making meanings in their dark books.
I could not remember if I drank,
or if I could not remember because I drank.
This was written down too.
It happened to other women, so it would happen to me.
The worst part of eternity,
the man had said, is that it never ends.
He had kept one bullet for each, knowing each attempt
would be precision. There would be no mistakes.
His violence gave something, but it took something too:
it was less than an animal.
It was the way of life.
