Horse Money

The trainer’s twins hid
among hay bales, their laughter

galloping in the fall air.
They told me their names,

then switched them.
At seven, aware of how a lie

can be that easy. Once
at a party, I told somebody

their rash looked fine
to me. I told everybody

they were fine.
No need to worry. The world

is kind and full of hiding spots.
What happened to the girls?

They grew into horses
themselves, blue ribbon winners

that escaped one afternoon
with the gate ajar.

They’re somewhere in Florida,
leaving locks of their manes

behind as little jokes.
You’ll never find them.

You’ll never find anybody
who can lie and hide like that.

The Only Bad Luck Bird

Is it the swan,
big as a stove,
sad as a god?

Or the crow
that names
each morning?

The mornings
last for days.
You know

the season.
January, and we
dream of flight.

To be fair,
we dream
of homes, too,

a condominium
or a rancher.
I like your house.

That little room
off the kitchen
where somebody

could hide for a few
minutes. Once,
at the laundromat,

I lost my favorite
coat and walked
home in the snow.

That was before
we were friends.
I’ll try not to

mention loss again.
Please tell me
about the alcove.

To be honest,
I like birds.
Even the bad ones.

Erica Wright is the author of seven books, including All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned (Black Lawrence Press, 2017) and Snake (Bloomsbury, 2020). She was the poetry editor at Guernica Magazine for more than a decade.

Published October 15 2023