Godiva by Taylor Graham
Here you come as if in dream,
riding your great, muscled dark horse
only half mastered, threading a way
between the heaped-up tables
of little girls in ruffles
and the bright mothers, the tiny cups
and low stools, the servers
parting like tides.
You’ve dropped off the high-
lands of sleep, no light on that
undiscovered slope that falls away
under hooves. Who taught
your horse not to stumble?
You’ve simply tossed aside the reins
as if they had less force
Years from now, some little girl
with chocolate smeared across
her cheeks might remember this
celebration by the black-sweat glister
of horse in her dreams, the sweet-
stuffed tables falling away
from its stride.