• Last Night

    Kara Olson

    Winter 2021

    Franz Marc’s horses
    were clay figures in my palms.
    My hands were so full of curves,
    so full of lonesome blue—

    Closed in their mouths
    was the knowledge of licking
    clean their foal. Think of god,
    the tongue and what it can do
    out of love, of velvet
    once it’s between your fingers.
    Their ears, tilted, listening,
    of midnight, their manes.

    And so it became a prayer.
    My holding. My thinking.

    Kara Olson’s poetry has appeared in TAYO Literary Magazine and Water~Stone Review. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

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