Memorate

The field. Light. Morning.
Then, my father, uncle.
Apples, everywhere.
In boxes, in palms, in teeth.
Apples, everywhere.
The black mare. Wild.
The black mare that dawned
from the mountain. Wild.
The rough sketches
of my earliest memory.
My father places me on the back
of the beast & we take off
fast, faster into memory.
I didn’t—I would never do that,
My father says. That never happened.