The foal from the Batagai crater
lived two months before succumbing
to cold or hunger. Tamped into tundra
for over thirty-thousand years, it emerged
statue-perfect from its earthen skin, a marvel
of muzzle against foreleg. I see this pose
in every pasture I pass. Like the corpses raised
from peatbogs, I await some sleight of hand
to restore motion. If it could clatter away
from the cold table of the lab men, I could run
my hands over warm flanks in greeting.
Leaning in, I would breathe an earlier air.
Save yourself, I might whisper. Save us.
Yet if it had, I might never have seen
the delicate quick of its hooves, its mud-
caked lashes, its matted tail-tuft. Every cult
calls for sacrifice. Every poet requires a body.
Devon Balwit lives scarily close to the Cascadia Subduction Zone. She has six chapbooks and three collections out in the world. Her individual poems can be found here as well as in print and on-line journals. For more, see her website at: here