His hooves plowed through 

your shut closet. In your bedroom,

you got weighed down 

in a hailstorm of uranium. 

An aquitaine occupation,

the horse neighed a bucking desire 

to call your womb, your egg mistake

his territorial property. 

When you stepped over to calm 

his haunch, he snorted a punch 

like Pa’s fist across Ma’s jaw. 

This spawn burned scars

into your fallopian hallways.

You felt a pulse reverberating.

The ultrasound revealed

a hole in my spiked heart.