Apricot
by Amanda Chiado
When your parents say swallow the wishes, you stand on the edge of the pasture, admiring her soft, silky back and large glossy eyes, how she walks like she owns the long horizon of lush grass and each apricot heart in the orchard. Your mother says her mane is an omen. You like omens. Your father says that when he was a boy, he dreamed of riding through the deep woods on his own appaloosa. No other breed is marked with such contradiction. Sticky fingers can only go so far, you tell yourself.
You swallow. First, you stole your father an old book. Next, a knitted sweater. Whenever he’d dream, your heart would ache and pound the earth of your body like a stampede. Soon enough, you turned your night into his dream. You made your way into the dark barn. You’d never worn all black in your life, but you saw then how love does its job to a body.
The soft girl loved you, after she almost trampled you to death. Then, the light flashed on from the kitchen window in the nearby house, hearing the barn door’s squeaking release. You hitched your body up in the moonlight, hushing the animal, a thousand apologies folded up into two words, for all your misgivings. As they had in your childhood church, your sins echoed, this time they floated up into the dying stars.
Your heart drove the horse into the shadows, one soft encouraging kick at a time. The little barn small behind you. Then, a hot rod on Cherry Hill peeled out, and the girl got spooked. She took off. You could barely hold on. Your father’s eyes flashed in the trees. The animal galloped and panted. You held on to her omen mane, on and on into the woods.
The rush of her fear filled you with regret. When she finally stopped, she continues huffing. Her silky body filling and releasing the air. You cried out into the uninhabited darkness for your parents.
The owls became new points of home from which to navigate. You are exhausted by the image of your father sleeping, snoring even, dreaming of his appaloosa carrying him over steep hills.
You rested your body against the horse. Your mother was right. Her body was warm; both dark and bursting with light.
About the Author:
Amanda Chiado’s poem "Armor" is part of the 2019 Visible Poetry Project, animated by Marc Burnett. She is the author of the chapbook Vitiligod: The Ascension of Michael Jackson (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her poetry and short fiction has most recently appeared in The Pinch, Barren Magazine, and Entropy. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. She is the Director of Arts Education at the San Benito County Arts Council, is an active California Poet in the Schools, and edits for Jersey Devil Press. www.amandachiado.com
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.
