Man. Horse. Tree., by Stuart Gunter
Posted on September 18, 2019
The guy next to me at the meeting
is drawing as he takes notes.
Simple, black figures: a man,
a horse, a tree. I imagine
preparations for a hanging.
Or the beginnings of a campaign
to hunt down an unseen enemy.
He is here. He is early.
Have I been here, too?
Or is it Judas Iscariot?
Before or after the 30 pieces
of silver change hands, before
or after the big betrayal? Is he wrestling
with God? Or is this after, when he
is about to throw the rope over
the lowest branch, climb on the horse’s
back, loop the noose around his neck,
and slap its hip? I imagine a
western accent: “Git! Go on!” But I know
that’s not right. This is the movie, made
for me. The man. The horse. The tree.
Beautifully rendered on plain, lined paper.
I try to draw my own versions. The only
one that resonates is the tree. But I sit in its
shade, in my mind. Wondering about this
man, this horse, this tree. Where are they
going? Why here, why now? The guy closes
his notebook, puts his pen in his pocket, rubs
his neck, and yawns. Someone pours a cup
of coffee. And nobody gets up, or even moves.
The Sixty-Four best poets of 2018, Black Mountain Press