Wind warms aromas of manure and hay.
In the barn’s cool shade, a stallion’s sedated,
Secure for now in his familiar stall,
Stamping softly, disposed to obey
His handler’s stroke and tender call.

The years since he broke his maiden, ruled
The sunny roar of the post parade,
Have been one long break from the gate, lulled
By fame, by days kept, by seconds rushed,
By hours reared, centuries strode and played,

By grooms rubbed, jockeys rode, entirely in thrall.
He sees and thinks of nothing but the wall.
His scrotum is slit, spermatic cord crushed.
The vet keeps the slick red shape, ornate with veins,
That could be mistaken for an infant.

The horse will never pull wildly again at reins,
Slower now, serene, soon to forget all he can’t
Sense, can’t do, won’t know, no longer want,
The infinite urges, taken, will never again taunt
Him. Farm dogs whine and plead, scratch and pant

At the gate, knowing what they will get.
The man holds the flaccid, bulging wet
Shape up to shine in the sun a moment
Over the slobbering jaws, then drops it.
The dogs scrabble on loose gravel and tear

The discarded sop among them till their
Jaws are lit with blood, muzzles slick with sperm.
They rove off, rowdy, rewarded, to rule the farm,
To revel, having seized their rightful prize,
Attended by adoring swarms of eager flies.

Original appearance in Measure magazine.