Bruise Blood
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The first time my sister was kicked
by a horse she pulled down her pants
and showed half her hind-end.
It was a clear blue-blackish hoof-print
surrounded by a bloom of yellow,
and I swear I thought there was some green
in it as far as I could see.
She wouldn’t let me touch it.
In the bruise, I saw the kick,
full strength of hind quarters
and back-stretched hock
that hit and spun her
so fiercely she got up a stunned distance away
in the April mud, on all fours,
and started to breathe again.
Before she could even stand,
she lay on her side flexing
her knee to her chest and back straight
to see if it would all still hold together.
I touched the bruised imprint
with an empty soup can
filling the inside of the blue hoof.
What did you do to him, I said.
Turned my back on him, she said,
shoving my shoulder.
Not a thing, she said, not one thing.
‘What’d you do to him.
What’d you do to him,’ she said,
and buckled up her belt.