Academy of American Poets
View Cart | Log In 
Subscribe | More Info 
Find a Poet or Poem
Advanced Search >
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Lux
Thomas Lux
Thomas Lux was born in Northampton, Massachusetts, in 1946. He was educated at...
More >
Want more poems?
Subscribe to our
Poem-A-Day emails.
FURTHER READING
Poems about Eating
A Wicker Basket
by Robert Creeley
Apples
by Grace Schulman
Breakfast
by Minnie Bruce Pratt
Dream In Which I Meet Myself
by Lynn Emanuel
Eating The Bones
by Ellen Bass
Eating Together
by Li-Young Lee
Egg
by Aleš Šteger
Man Eating
by Jane Kenyon
The Book of the Dead Man (Food)
by Marvin Bell
To a Poor Old Woman
by William Carlos Williams
Woman on Twenty-Second Eating Berries
by Stanley Plumly
Poems about Horses
The Destruction Of Sennacherib
by George Gordon Byron
A Horse Grazes in My Shadow
by Matt Rasmussen
Horses at Midnight Without a Moon
by Jack Gilbert
I Lost My Horse
by Cecily Parks
Remorse
by Carl Sandburg
Ruin
by Seth Abramson
She Leaves Me Again, Six Months Later
by Collier Nogues
The Dusk of Horses
by James Dickey
The White Horse
by D. H. Lawrence
Sponsor a Poet Page | Add to Notebook | Email to Friend | Print

Dead Horse

 
by Thomas Lux

At the fence line, I was about to call him in when,
at two-thirds profile, head down
and away from me, he fell first
to his left front knee
and then the right, and he was down,
dead before he hit the...
My father saw him drop, too,
and a neighbor, who walked over.
He was a good horse, old,
foundered, eating grass during the day
and his oats and hay 
at night. He didn't mind
or try to boss the cows
with which he shared these acres.
My father said: "Happens." Our neighbor
walked back to his place
and was soon grinding towards us
with his new backhoe,
of which he was proud
but so far only used to dig two sump holes.
It was the knacker 
we'd usually call to haul away a cow.
A horse, a good horse, you buried
where he, or she, fell. Our neighbor
cut a trench
beside the horse
and we pushed him in.
I'd already said goodbye
before I closed his eyes.
Our neighbor returned the dirt.
In it, there were stones,
stones never, never seen before
by a human's,
nor even a worm's, eye.
Malcolm, our neighbor's name,
returned the dirt from where it came
and, with the back of a shovel,
we tamped it down
as best we could. One dumb cow
stood by.
It was a Friday, 
I remember, for supper we ate hot dogs, with beans
on buttered white bread, every Friday,
hot dogs and beans.






Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Lux. Used with permission of the author.
Larger TypeLarger Type | Home | Help | Contact Us | Privacy Policy Copyright © 1997 - 2014 by Academy of American Poets.