Freeing Horses © 2002 Marco Tovares		Freeing Dead Horses Pris Campbell My mother weeps from her grave over my mismatched furniture and dustballs gathering in dark corners while I meditate, toes pointed towards the rumble of dead horses over my rooftop. Dust is relative, I say, in a useless attempt to quiet her. I speak aloud of the horses, their manes tangled by the wind and the blood of slain buffalo, hearts pounding from that last hunt, before our houses herded them deep into the black ground to dream their memories of freedom. You're crazy, my mother tells me. ©2002 Pris Campbell