the time they shot the horses

1985
cruel summer
the year they shot the horses
on grandpa's land
the ricochet bounced
through many heads
after that
as we counted the bodies
dead in the pasture
and it must've been like
wounded knee all over
as the blood flowed
down the hill
this was not our war
this was not our kill

only one remained there
after the slaughter
one little pony
standing next to his
dead mother
and i thought of the world
in its predicted metaphor
we beat on these dead things
so much we spoiled
but never in war
unlike the caucasians
instead we just crashed
in our cars

i thought when
when will this world
stop playing
cowboys and indians?
as the wild horses run
in their barbwire fence
in the end
we just know how to break
all things innocent

mother could you have predicted?
father could you have been more vindictive?
and after all the bodies fell
some by cars
others by the alcohol
could anyone have guessed
i would still be standing there
and every winter of every year
i beat on my parent's dead chests
so much
not even the dead can rest