Island Remnant

I carved a miniature horse out of wax. The wax was meant to coat a surfboard
cracked where the chest would lay, a misshapen cube left on stacks of towels.
I carved a miniature horse from it. I could not carve exact
but made the nostrils and the eyes and the flat of the nose the hands might pet, but tiny hands.

The horse was small and smelled of coconut oil. I carved him with a paperclip and spoon.
My opulent tiny moon horse, his nostrils too big, mane too coarse, but
it could have been worse.
Of course the ocean took the fields. It took the childhoods and the fields.

Copyright © 2008 Endi Bogue Hartigan All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission