Perhaps the ankle of a horse is holy
bent and heavy in my palm
I trace the hoof with a pick
dislodging days of dirt and shit
souvenirs from travel
held in the foot of my horse, chocolate
tinged rose by the sky
here dawn bleeds out behind us
like crushed pomegranate seeds
and over my hand holding her
opal in matrix
fissured like the gem
no one finds in the middle of a boulder
this hoof is as rare
as this moment
hinged for now
beneath an ankle crowned in alfalfa strands
crowned like Christ’s thorny head, he walked
on water, she galloped.