Day 1,118

You dream a horse
has come to you
where you live in the tent camp.
A large horse, a horse
the mahogany brown
of a treetrunk. A nose
soft as velvet, soft
as what you recall
of your mother’s touch.
You dream a horse. In the dark
interrupted by the buzz
of drones, you dream
his breathing. In the windy tent,
the tent with flaps
that don’t close, with a floor
that floods in the rain,
you dream a horse
who can carry you
on his back: not
to some faraway land,
but to a time you remember.
A time before genocide.
A time when your mother
was still alive. When
your house was a place
you counted on.
Over the broken land
he goes, your hands
gripping his mane, hair
flying behind you.
He promises you can ride him
all the way home to those
happier times. And,
in the dream, you believe him.