on the night we grow hooves

trampled ice cream grove. you call 
a doctor & the doctor turns out
to just be a man with a moon for a face.
you tell me, "why are you always 
the pirate." i look down at my silk dress
& my willow-tree hands. i do not mean
to talk to god. i do not mean to  run.
a hoof is a crossroads. here come
the four horsewomen. here come
cherubs without any eyes. i always thought
i could empty myself to become
the right kind of animal. you fill
my satchel with teeth. i ask, "what are we
going to do with these?" you shush me.
we have hooves now. we don't need
to ask questions. i remember the jars
of pickled pigs feet at the farmer's market.
how they talked to me even as a child.
"hold me. hold me." i don't want you
to see my hooves. i want you to look at me
& only witness feathers & the sound
of lilies turning into mice. 
you used to bring me flowers. you used to
eat my hair like spaghetti. i always told you
we would arrive to night like this.
searching for our hands in the dark
& finding none. hoof to road.
you chasing me or me chasing you.
i ask, "where did you go?"
you do not answer. instead, you find 
a man to stampede. i join in & call it a game. 
i ask you, when we are done,
"in the morning will you remember me?"
you respond with another question,
"in the morning will we still have hooves?"