Trembling, desirous, above the display
case, I hovered with my child’s hand. Beneath,
porcelain palominos stamped their feet
and foals stood with their long legs splayed. I longed
to take one home, to place it on a shelf
and study the raised leg, the frothy mane.
Then, cupping the horse’s shape in my hand,
I’d make a pasture of my palm, a field.
No one was looking, no one, I reasoned,
would know I swiped it, toy in my pocket.
That night I stroked the caramel china.
I was galloping, when my mother walked
into my room. She knew I was lying.
(The horse? a gift . . .) I cried when she told me
we’d speak with the manager the next day.
In his office I stood, wept, but even
then I was really crying for the cheap
horse back in the glass case, my mother,
my foolish and punishable desires,
the future taking shape: corral, stampede.
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