No Animals Were Harmed in the Writing of this Poem
by Steve Klepetar

There’s a black horse in the meadow
and a white one with its lips on fire.

Through the trees, I can see them burn.
And now the orphans have thundered out.

A tall girl and three boys in frayed jeans
and boots zigzag between black flanks

and white, slapping at the fire with rags.
The air around us is thick with gnats and flies.

Horses scream. Smoke rises toward the sky.
The stench of burning flesh drills through

my bones. I’ve watched this before in a dream,
a scene without sense, the horror unexplained.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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