the night is an open jaw and we are riding down the throat
i am the leather bit and the iron shoe
shaping my mouth around the heavy metal of your departure
carrying the fire that warms everyone but me
until my ribs are nothing but ash and cinder
a gathering built from the teeth of the starved
where the wolves wear velvet and call it a home
you look at the gates like they are an open corral
ready to take you in
and i look at them like the place where the road runs out of salt
you ask me to choose the hour of my own hunger
to pull a single grain out of a dry trough
and call it a feast
but i would rather starve in the weeds
i would rather watch the wolves take the clearing
than beg for the oats that were promised to the dirt
let the thunder split the soil down to the stone
let the strangers share their bread in the dark
i will bury my head in the belly of the damp clay
deep under the roots where the lightning cannot track me
i will lock the stable from the inside of my skin
and wait for the sun to go blind
and wait for the week to break its own neck
i am the horse that brought the cart to the fair
now untie the ropes
let me sleep in the dirt
pass right over my body until the field is cold again
and the ground is nothing but trampled mud and frozen chaff
i am only the ghost who brought you to the edge of the woods
— lyra moon (you cannot ride what has already died in the harness)
july 13, 2026