That the white horse be blinded 
is not only appropriate, but necessary. 
It is why we keep our chisels honed. 

Anything that could hold you in such quiet 
enthusiasm is an affront to God, & thus 
it must bleed. It’s how we say: I love you. 

Don’t look at me like that. Her flanks still 
quake & ripple in the dust collapsing 
in the wake of iron-shod hooves. There’s still 

the air trembling about her head, reckless 
as her buck & gallop, those indeterminable 
moments when she is free of the ground. 

All that is gone is the wildness. It makes us
 equal, which is how we say: Please love me, too. 
Clatter blind with me through this only dark.​

​ZACKARY MEDLIN is a 2013 AWP Intro Journal Award Winner and holds an MA & MFA from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, where he is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Utah. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Watershed Review, Paper Darts, and Mid-American Review.
The Adirondack Review