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House of the Dearly Departed
By Matt Morris

As a boy, I combed the rooms,
hoping to find you hiding
in a closet, ready
to leap at me the instant
I opened the door. Instead
the cascading slapstick
of nothing, not even your knockabout
cardigan dancing from its nail. I peeked
up the lifted skirt around your bed to find
dust dusted over with dust. Crouched
behind the couch, just the dog
scratching. Out of the maze
I slogged outside
to call for you, my voice
echoing down rows of shotgun
houses, when a beautiful

red horse clopped up
the porch steps, its shining mane
a magic fire. Having never
seen such a beast close up, alive,
I gasped. The horse
nodded & reared like a statue
awakened, just as a short, round man
in white roped its neck; his pale assistant
jabbed a gigantic
hypodermic into its hind leg.
I cried as they wrestled
the horse, nares flaring, into the cramped
back of their refurbished hearse,
Animal Control painted across
the black doors. I wanted to tell them
to stop, that it was my horse, but it wasn’t
really. It was my heart.