Painted Horses Wet With Rain

Sitting with you, drawing with you,
Playing with you from second through sixth:

You were our class genius and painted horses wet with rain,
Before you had breasts, in their pastures without fences;
In the pastures they owned.

Your mother pitied herself for abandoned
By the mural painter who stayed a few months
In our small gossip of a town,

Leaving a daughter with new translucent skin
And eyes that chased after
Perspective like butterflies from birth,

And hated you.