THE BOATMAN THAT IS A HORSE

It is the other day, and a boatman walks home with me.
He clears his throat, then pulls both shoulderblades from my back.

I collapse forward at the chest and stop walking. The boatman stops walking as well.
From his satchel he removes bits of wicker and a bundle of bandages.

He chews the wicker like you would an old tire that has been used as a sandal,
and he rips the bandages into coins. He tells me to wait there,

that he will return soon and then we will continue. I wonder what it is he wants
with my shoulderblades. The boatman returns as a horse without hooves,

in place of his hooves are newspapers. He speaks only Spanish,
understanding him is difficult because although now a horse,

the boatman’s mouth still chews the wicker. Have you ever tried to understand
a boatman that is a horse who speaks only Spanish and whose mouth is full of wicker?

I become confused as to what it is he wants with my shoulder blades.
I grow tired, my knees buckle, I am sitting on clay.

The boatman that is a horse joins me, and the clay stains orange both my clothes
and his hide. The boatman now nurses his hooves. Or his newspapers.

He snorts and rubs the messy stumps behind his ears, all the while flapping his gums.
From what I could understand, he was going on about the drought.

I become even more tired. I nudge with my chin my shoulderblades between the boatman
that is a horse without hooves and myself, and I spit into my hollow bones.

With my cheek and the boatman’s horse cheek to the clay, we sip the spittle.
The boatman that is a horse toasts my health and the excellent price he paid
for his makeshift hooves.