the night is an open jaw and we are riding down the throat
i am the leather bit and the iron shoe
shaping my mouth around the heavy metal of your departure
bearing the load that keeps the wheels turning for everyone
until my ribs are nothing but ash and cinder
a gathering built from the teeth of the starved
where the wolves wear velvet and call it a home
you look at the gates like they are an open corral
ready to take you in
and i look at them like the place where the road runs out of salt
you ask me to choose the hour of my own hunger
to pull a single grain out of a dry trough
and call it a feast
but i would rather starve in the weeds
i would rather watch the wolves take the clearing
than beg for the oats that were promised to the dirt
so let the thunder do what thunder does to open ground
let the strangers divide whatever bread remains
i will go down into the clay
where the roots have no memory of harness
where nothing is asked of the dark
i am the horse that brought you to the edge
the ropes are still around my neck
pass right over my body until the field goes cold
until the ground is nothing but trampled mud and frozen chaff
i am only the ghost of the animal that carried you here
and the field
and the field
and the field
—lyra moon (you cannot ride what has already died in the harness)
july 13, 2026