Horses in the Time of COVID

By Meghan Miraglia

I remember 
the languidness of it, 
days stretched out like an Achilles tendon, 
my feet knowing where to go next, 
no second-guessing, no thinking, even, at all. 

We’d wait by the door, beg for an outstretched hand,
sliver of sugar on sticky palm, 
I used to trace your life lines with the belly of my tongue, 
I’d root around for some kind of sweetness,
but then I forgot, slowly, 
what it meant to be held,

really held, not in the way the ground holds us 
by the half-moons of our hooves, 
held in a deeper way. 

We called to each other because we did not want
to unknow our names, 
how they sounded when spoken by someone we loved. 
We knotted our hair 
so that someone could come rid us of ourselves, 
which is maybe a way of saying
this wildness within us is too much to bear, 
which is maybe a way of saying
we missed you.

Meghan Miraglia (she/her) is a poet living an hour outside of Boston, MA. She has been writing for seven years, focusing on themes of the divine, love, and the physical manifestations of emotions in her body. She anticipates releasing a chapbook of poetry as part of her undergraduate thesis. You can read more of her work at meghan's journals (meghanthepoet.blogspot.com)