for M.F.C.
In Kentucky, my nephew stares
out the window from his carseat,
hand pressed to the glass, capturing
a polaroid of the pasture as we drive
parallel to the thoroughbreds, their manes
a flurry under the bluegrass sun.
He points, "Neigh Neighs,"
his own voice barely pitched
stronger than a whinny,
as if the car, engine thick
with horsepower, or I,
two hands on the wheel,
need the onomatopeia
to understand the animals,
their importance to him.
Once home, unbuckled,
he sprints like a warrior
up the concrete porch,
heaving open the screen door
in his excitement to make it
to the living room
where his Fisher-Price barn lives
with all its plastic horses,
their hearts, like his, big as melons.
