Featured Poet: Miriam Gamble

The black mare
refuses to submit
her thick black hair
to the clipper blades:
she cuts air
at their very touch
with her far-flung forefeet.
And when the grey
falls like duck feathers
on the icy yard
from the Connemara,
her rolled eyes
are in horror at his white
that is so pure
even we cannot believe it,
though we say
to each other nonetheless
that it really suits him,
as if we knew
what would suit him or would not.
And the small silver patch
on the black mare’s side
glints in the twilight
of the freezing forest
this hour we have stolen out of things
to calm her fear,
and for once I understand,
this once we understand each other:
I too am afraid
of what is under there,
of the sharp, extreme breath of winter
that has come here
with the clipper blades,
that has turned
the mountains into sky kings,
and cut my skin into rivulets.
Tomorrow we will dope her,
fix shackles
to her flailing legs.

The big fishing grounds are sailing out beyond
his capability. He has been swimming, now, for days –
a lone traveller searching for a vantage point, some
pinnacle from which the endless blue may be plumbed
and dallied in, a solid respite from the heat haze
which bewilders him and meddles with his sight.

The waves coruscate with sunlight – beautiful traps
in which he wastes his energy, tumbling and duck-
diving, powerless to resist, his great, sleek body falling easily
to play, and although, at present, he is less than shy
with the camera crew, we can't believe our luck
in getting this. We will celebrate with schnapps

in the cabin when the day is done, glasses to the light.
Around midnight, something breaks the silence – he is back,
and rattling the windowpanes. It’s orders not to interfere,
and let me tell you there were more than a few tears
spent when we watched him lose it, earlier, to a pack
of angry walruses, their fat gleaming in the sun, their off-

white daggers stabbing at him to the left, and to the right,
with indiscriminate abandon….But this is obviously different:
this calls for doing something, and something quick.
I batten down the inner hatches, send Frankie to collect
the magic wand. The big fishing grounds are sailing out beyond
him, heaving flesh. We bewilder him, and pick a line of sight.