The bronze mule at the trailhead downtown first,
then a Confederate horse—riderless—
at least a dozen stone lambs from the cemetery,
and last the glass animals from the cabinet in the five-and-dime,
those shedding rainbows as they clattered
and chipped their way down the sidewalks.
The humans slack and staring in their pickup trucks.
The animals gathered at the library, then
turned and made their heavy way to the city pool.
The horse put its hooves on the counter, looked at the lifeguards,
tapped twice the sign that said FREE SWIM TUESDAY.
A rush through the locker rooms and all of them
into the blue, sinking immediately, looking peaceful
down there, listening to pop songs on the underwater speakers.
Free as several birds, had there been
a bird statue anywhere in town.
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Jacquelyn Bengfort is a writer and collagist living in rural Maryland. She has received fellowships from the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing and the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities, and she is the author of two Ghost City Press micro-chapbooks, Navy News Service and Suitable for All Methods of Communication.