Who stroked the horses, curried them
and whispered  comfort into those gigantic,

twitching ears?  They stamp in the stables,
more mysterious than Briseis, voiceless

but for rituals of wailing. Ten years,
three generations of foals, dark, patient

eyes, unsteady rising on spindly legs,
generations bred to the bridle, coming

of age at Troy, stallions, mares and gentle
geldings. See the horse-gods in golden harness

gaze down from Olympus on the hill of Hisarlek.

[Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two chapbooks: My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word and My Father Had Another Eye.]