A Horse Whispers
By Maria Lisa Eastman

I know a woman
who smiles all the time.
Starting slow in her eyes,
it spreads across
her nose and cheeks
then in bright rings
descends to her mouth
sinking clear down deep
where I watch it fuse
with her rich core
made of magma,
blue water and light.
I want to drink her up.
This woman has some troubles.
Another usually walks beside,
holding on,
because she falls often—
down the dark stairs
onto the hot pavement
once, into the car door
when she stepped out hurrying,
eager to touch me
wrapped in my soft chestnut coat.
Her small face
often painted in bruises
is red, purple, black.
I know they hurt
so I brush them carefully
with my whisker lips.
I want to lick them off.
This woman I know
does not speak out loud.
But if you spend a little time
with her you will know
she is fluent,
bursting with a molten language
long forgot by others,
those who love their words.
Words must be delicious.
You can tell because they are spoken
with such mouthwatering and lip-smacking
and they cause such a fuss.
I want to eat them all up.
When the woman I know
walks beside me
I am happy.
She is like me,
filled with unbeaten blood
with each step our kinship
old and storied
wakes anew.
I bow my head as she pulls
thick legs long through the sand
coaxing near-deaf feet to listen
and smiles again, to me, to them.
If, suddenly unbalanced,
she yanks on my lead rope,
I do not mind.
I steady my head
like a rock in my halter
and she does not fall
and she does not fall.
I want to walk with her everywhere.
My name is Finnegan.
I am huge and quiet.
This is my work.
I am Finnegan.
You would be surprised
at all I know.