I ask for a brush.

It’s half-lost in the cracked wood and weeping cobwebs.
I draw crop circles in his coat,
breathing in manure and dirt as a birthright.
He is untrained but he stills
and puts his head to mine.
I whisper greetings
though I wear goodbyes,
but those dirges
will not touch us.
There is nothing to mourn here.
The sun sets
and the light doesn’t work
but I see him
and he sees me.
I keep my thistle pencil moving.
The son of brother and sister,
smaller than the rest.
I gather him with my dirty dress
and pour oats in his bucket
from my tattered ribs
and water from my lungs.
Grime and red sky mixes our communion wine.

I wonder if he’s
forgotten me.