The horse brings you home
wading through summer rain, reminds you
not to stare too long at the halo of light
the flicker of streetlamps, metal heads bowed over fogged streets
your bad knee doesn’t mind the long ride anymore
the rain feels good.
At home, you don’t knock, just
ping the paper lanterns, one after the other
like fireflies seeking patterns in summer heat. You sink
into your favorite chair near the window
watch the pigeons roost on the neighbor’s house, wonder
when’s dinner, if maybe
happiness
only comes when you don’t expect it.
The last time we talked, I asked
if it ever gets easier
being alone, and you laughed and said, it doesn’t
but the view gets better when you’re looking back. Each day
I forget you a little more
your shadow by the window like a
swath of birds taking flight
I know
this is a necessary migration,
but I worry
you won’t find your way next year
those ever-changing streets, named and unnamed
torn bare and repaved, an ocean of bones between us
but you tell me to remember
the horses
how even grazing on the night field
they always know their way home.
(Editors’ Note: “there are no taxis for the dead” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 58A.)
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© 2024 Angela Liu
