Although Bobbie Miranda Crafts primarily writes short fiction — both adult and YA, and some pieces where both converge — Bobbie also writes poetry and belongs to an online poetry group she discovered when attending Spalding University’s brief residency program for a Masters in creative writing. She also founded and run a horse rescue/sanctuary.
Iris
In the winter barn you are a warm wall I lean against now,
Your huge ribs heaving gently— Horse.
We breathed together– friends, then,
As we drifted over hills that tumbled across
Yellow fields and green meadows hidden in the deep of summer.
You invited me, again and again –
“Climb on,I’m lonely.”
Your big body sways today on feet that aren’t enough.
Falling down feet is the disease you have:
Degenerative Suspensory Ligament Desmitis.
Iris!
I flung panic into the sky.
I thought you would die.
You look at me archly, as would a sage.
Your eyes, weary now, don’t smile:
“I am here, see me?”
After your fetlocks fell further down, someone said,
“Climb on her back –one more time.”
You do not invite me, and whisper: “I remember we were friends, in the sun
that bloomed among the tall grasses, your hand on my neck as we walked
through secret meadows sunk in shadows.
Be with me now. I’m lonely.”
I want to carry you.
Fourth Night
Cat: ball of light, jumping like mercury through your soft outer self,
and quivering with the half-wild smell
of outside grass and inside pillows, hidden house-holes.
You are not here now, this windy March after you slipped through the door.
I still see you there, and over there–
White flashes (old snow or sunlight): they could be your proud white chest.
Your little bowl, shiny clean now,
Empty, these four blank days,
In the house that is silent of you.
The ache expands a little more
Each day: a sore opening,
A love so sharp that wields a tender knife.
You pound my heart, that loves, that love,
My little man, best little man,
Cat that you are, indeed.
Each night, I stand out in the
Dark and call, “good night,
come back to me!”
I hear my voice,
The stars stare back.
The Field Guide Poetry Magazine 