The Gift Horse

The sun lashed our backs as we pushed and guided

its stout shanks, the excitement building when we neared

the city walls. Ten years of war had left us exhausted

beyond belief, and the joys of victory created

a carelessness in our defenses.

When the great wooden victory spoil appeared,

we were awestruck. We welcomed the gift

to our city of heroes but we never thought

to check inside its wooden ribs.

With ropes and mules, we wrangled this

oak-hewn horse into our stable. Crowd noise

swelled as the men groaned in sweltering

heat, masking the rustling inside.

Pitchers of water sated the masses

as the cheers rose and fell like the oars

of the Greek ships sailing off in defeat.

The overcast skies seemed an omen

of the coming bloodshed. As sunlight escaped

through the foreboding clouds, our happiness swelled,

and as the victory spoil rolled through the gates,

songs of joy rained down.

One final yank, and the horse creaked

to a stop, secure like our city

after many years. As night descended,

we hoisted the wineskins

for a final toast before settling in

for an eternal sleep.

Luke Mercer