The new foal is late.
Our mare’s at 357 days.
Each day my dad checks
her udders for waxing
to find them dry.
When she is ready,
she’ll rub her nose all over
his beard, refuse her oats,
and stare into the abyss.
She’ll lose her early-labor
jitters eventually, settling down.
She doesn’t need help.
If I could, though, I’d sort
some Georgia clay, measure
each lump, each grain
to transmute into cells,
and risk my life in evocation.
I’d chant names until
the right one, the name of god,
comes. I’d bring the Golem
north to serve only her,
his midwifery unmatched.
And after she gives birth,
I’d return the Golem to burial,
spreading his dried clumps
under the foal like straw.