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Jilly Johannsen Poem
Villanelle the Foal
A gripping dance
(12 men lift a rigid horse onto a pick-up truck).
I drive gate-wide
in the Volvo
(Mummy, what are they doing with that pony? Is it…?)
Even I, in my
firm sureness
am not sure: I have never seen such as this before.
(Is pony sick?)
Its bay legs strict
wooden poles. Its stomach a bloated ball of deceased air
(They are gripping…)
it, and it's too
big for the damn truck. Where’s the horse box, for Goodness’ sake?
I fumble with
the parking brake,
an unsatisfactory switch, not a lever you pull,
watching the rear-
view mirror show.
(One hour later)
A joyful dance!
Bling-Bling is stood next to a wet, bedazzled, bay foal.
We cling to the
fence like insects
watching her stagger onto legs, (clean for a newborn:
she needs to suck).
The Vet pulls up
a Ford Ranger. In Dr. Zoë serene help came…
(We can call the
foal “Cash Machine”).
The Ford plays ‘The Power of Orange Knickers’... under
my petticoat.
Let us call her
Villanelle and dance to her life and dance to her death.
(She is sucking).
Within one hour
The span of a child’s pony ride in long pine forest
we cheat death: we
teased it alive.
Copyright © Jilly Johannsen | Year Posted 2023
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