Real

They all said they were real.
I had – and have – no idea
what that means.
Is it hunger? Thirst? Feeling
the wind catching in your throat?
How do you know real
when (if?) you find it?
What do you do to attain it?
Do I want to?
Is it (as a horse once told me)
about love? About suffering?
Is it about giving? Knowing
who exactly you are?
I know no more now
than then, when I first heard
its siren call: real real real
I am older      worn and torn.
I have danced with death
ridden bareback on loss
held love in widespread fingers
and watched it sift between.
Real? As a horse in a meadow
a soldier in a war      a wren
carved by hand from ancient wood.
Real.