The Sleepers

In the orchard of horses
among statues of horses,
a man lies sleeping.
His clothes, no color
and torn. His beard and hair,
long and gray and salt-caked
as the curl of waves in winter.
The horses dont notice,
quiet as they are
in their bronze-green poses—
horses too small to carry him,
too tall for him to climb.
The woman comes softly in gauze
and red beads. She bends down
and lifts his huge head,
strong curve of jaw
heavy as marble. She holds him;
in the dark cavity of her chest,
a cardinal dives and soars,
wings, a small fire.
Suddenly she knows who he is.
She tries to tell the others
who are with her
in the orchard of horses,
in the kitchen of the poor.
Old woman at the stove, stirring
the soup with a dented tin spoon,
men in sweat-pants in the halls,
apple-pickers on their ladders,
heads lost among the gnarled branches.
But no one looks up.
If she wills him not to die,
can he keep sleeping?
She holds the reins
of his sleep, her dream.
Meanwhile the horses ride,
each in its own place,
out of the country of longing.


 

© Patricia Fargnoli