Spring 2020

In my dream, a mare ran
circles, kicked up dust.
Its coat became hidden
and I couldn’t see it anymore.
When the dust settled,
it was gone.

Friesian. Arabian. Thorough
bred. Draft. Shire. Morgan.
Appaloosa. Paint.

One time I almost lost you
in the dust bowl of my bad
intuition. Your eyes shone
like two copper discs.
Spring drug on like a weak
follower of the pack.
We only found each other
in our sleep.

Crystal Ignatowski's poetry has been featured in Parentheses, Barren Magazine, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Cotton Xenomorph, Four Way Review, and more. She lives and writes in Oregon.