One, Two, Three, Four Little Ponies

Jenny Ferguson

1.

The black one reaches, lean and hard over barbed wire fence curved, his neck bulge of muscle. His teeth, ivory,
chewing what still grows—
we boarders of the dust bowl. 

2.

Hikers drinking upon a river,
clear to the eye, smell like cloud forest.
Because the fog drip never reaches
their sanded tongues. Forget the violence
crippling the bellies, masticating the bodies.
They will be nothing if not dried out husks expelling the sweet killing water.
Still—thirsting to sip down protozoa, their whip-like tails
and embrace dysentery
like a smooth legged lover.

3. 

In the summertime the children
they cough out their high happy days of summer, of smog
warnings. Singing, One little pony, two little ponies, green
pony, blue pony, won’t you ride away?
Rattle on brethren, smile on brethren,
little brothers in arms, clear your lungs so you can play. It’s 10 PM the wavering hour of daylight.

4.

He who smells of apple-breath and oat of summer’s berries withered tight to their branches
who darts among the prairie dog holes, would
that he could, that he could turn away
from the forward marches of the herd.