The Horse in the Garden

by Ruth Ann Pszwaro

Before his house became ours we walked the yard he cared for.

He was younger than his Parkinson-bound body told.

With a shaky finger he pointed out two raised beds behind the house

and two more by the jack pine. The neglect was obvious,

aspen suckers two or three feet high, thistles where pea tendrils

might have reached toward heaven. And grass everywhere—

inside the beds, creeping under the wooden perimeter

so stealthy, sly, easy—really. And then the largest bed

where five enormous rhubarb plants burst like a woman’s cleavage,

needs more support, he told us. His unsteady gait hobbling

in a sideways shuffle, ensuring we could see the buxom plants.

One of our horses is buried under this one.

That’s why the rhubarb goes gangbusters.

Plant anything here and it’ll grow ears, he said.

To this day I do not see a pile of horse bones beneath the soil

or decaying marrow from years spent underground.

I imagine a full, healthy mare standing down there—

frozen in mid stride time—mane and hide glistening like an oil slick

ready for him to saddle up and gallop away.