Mihir Bellamkonda
Mihir Bellamkonda is a poet based in Washington, D.C. and is currently working on their debut collection. They hold a BA from Duke University and enjoy rescuing worms form the sidewalk after storms. Their work is forthcoming in West Trade Review among other journals. They can be found on Twitter @MihirWords.
The Horse
1.
Terrifying, the eruption of breath against your neck,
warmth, moisture, the noise of an animal throat
designed for surging inhalations;
terrifying, the protrusion of the face,
the coarse hair of the lips,
the rolling eyes.
And this is the companion of our spirit?
This is our image of beauty?
The old makers still use rennet
for their cheeses, insisting in tradition's way
that the best sustenance requires this
cruelty, coagulation,
the clinging of the curd to itself,
a sharp acidity
before the soft and perfect bite.
Moving back from the origin, the mouth,
we can see the context of the body entire,
the slow magic of domesticity,
the sorrel coat shining over muscle and vein,
the palpable grace, the radiant heat,
the capacity to vanish distance.
2.
The poets taught me:
find in your wanting the critical bone
on which all else depends.
Break it.
Press your lips to the splintered edge
and enrich yourself with marrow.
My father taught me:
leave the long bone to its purpose.
Drink milk for hunger.
Grow, and leave the body of wanting
to growth. Let it run.
Let it vanish
into the gentle amber hills. Thus conflicted,
each day I examine the limbs of desire
like a buyer examines a horse.
Strong gait. Good teeth.
I alternate days, now cruelly breaking, now leaving
the beast to its semblance of peace;
I am waiting for a bone that sustains
unfractured.
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