The Hobbled Brother of Pegasus
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after Mnemosyne (The Sails of Memory), Julia Levitina
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Worse than without,
this horse has but
one wing, shriveled
like youngest lettuce,
too small even to brush
flies away from rippling
hide. Thalidomide, I
think, stroking green
bronze worn bright
along its high withers
by sympathetic hands.
Memories, they come.
That was so long ago,
though some must still
be here, unfinished babies
grown old like me. Mother
told me not to stare but I
stared. It’s impolite, son.
But how could I not?
This was at the circus,
the boy sitting on the row
in front of us, with his
mother, too. I watched
the seal balancing a ball
(red) on its nose, clapping,
barking, and the ringmaster
sparkling in the spotlight,
whipping the trotting ponies
as they passed by beneath
their riders, all sad dogs
seeking the ring’s exit. And
one at a time, far beyond
his close reach, the mother
fed her boy popcorn.
this horse has but
one wing, shriveled
like youngest lettuce,
too small even to brush
flies away from rippling
hide. Thalidomide, I
think, stroking green
bronze worn bright
along its high withers
by sympathetic hands.
Memories, they come.
That was so long ago,
though some must still
be here, unfinished babies
grown old like me. Mother
told me not to stare but I
stared. It’s impolite, son.
But how could I not?
This was at the circus,
the boy sitting on the row
in front of us, with his
mother, too. I watched
the seal balancing a ball
(red) on its nose, clapping,
barking, and the ringmaster
sparkling in the spotlight,
whipping the trotting ponies
as they passed by beneath
their riders, all sad dogs
seeking the ring’s exit. And
one at a time, far beyond
his close reach, the mother
fed her boy popcorn.
Like cummings,
I’m hurt when strays don’t recognize me
as their friend. I’ve practiced submissiveness
in my stance, a voice of soothing comfort
and a placid aura of ease (I think), and yet
they still hiss and bark and run away, leaving
me with an outstretched hand petting nothing
but bald air. Deep down, though, I understand,
of course, how they’re merely surviving survival;
I just wish they could somehow know that I,
too, am. Where else is there to turn, after all,
but them when, time yet again and again,
I am so failed by—and so fail—my fellow
manunkind?
edward estlin, what must you
think of this god america i now?
as their friend. I’ve practiced submissiveness
in my stance, a voice of soothing comfort
and a placid aura of ease (I think), and yet
they still hiss and bark and run away, leaving
me with an outstretched hand petting nothing
but bald air. Deep down, though, I understand,
of course, how they’re merely surviving survival;
I just wish they could somehow know that I,
too, am. Where else is there to turn, after all,
but them when, time yet again and again,
I am so failed by—and so fail—my fellow
manunkind?
edward estlin, what must you
think of this god america i now?
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Kevin Grauke has recently published poems in The Threepenny Review, Ninth Letter, The Louisville Review, The Minnesota Review, and Bayou. He’s the author of the short-story collections Shadows of Men and West of Destry, and a third short-story collection, Bullies & Cowards, is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in 2026. He teaches at La Salle University and lives in Philadelphia.
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