Dead Horse
by Elani Spencer
My great-grandmother worked in a cotton mill, but don’t beat the dead horse
I inherited my calluses from her, but don’t beat the dead horse
Southern heat was an old friend to her, tickling her neck like a whisper
She wasn’t too young to know the sound of chains, but don’t beat the dead horse
Dirt roads, braided pathways, the gnarled bits of meat stuck to the belly of skillet
A stomach strong enough to stand anything, but don’t beat the dead horse
The Big Dipper rising once again like the American flag every falling dusk
Red(blood) white(teeth) and blue(face) are our colors too, but don’t beat the dead horse
Muse Mosaics 