One house sits

quietly on this,

the street of carousels.


Who will set

the horses running?


Stubborn as dahlias,

their poles grow dim


with sun. Doesn’t mean

they’ve never run.


When I walk by

I furtively caress

their flanks.


They lie. They lie.

They know

they are alive.


I’ve seen them gaze

on our house


in the middle

of the night.


I’ve heard

them neigh.


They say, they say:

anything they touch


remembers it was touched.

Sarah Koenig lives in Seattle, WA. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Far Field, Crab Creek Review, Raven Chronicles, Calyx and Hummingbird.