Synchronize

By: Katey Funderburgh

The locals say a stampede of Eriskay ponies predicts a single death. Last year, one of Eriskay Isle’s oldest men did not see spring. Which horse starts the stampede, and what does it sound like, feel like? I picture their small herd breathing heavy, a trail of trampled sand behind them. 
I arrive in the summer. Eriskay Isle is small, just 2.5 miles long and 1.5 miles wide, encircled by perfect white beaches. The ocean is so clear, I can see all the way to the bottom, can count each fish in each school that swims past. I climb the boulders on the east shore and plug my nose before jumping in. It’s cold; it takes my breath away. 

At the island’s center is a jagged cliffside that descends into the surrounding bogland. Wild Eriskay ponies dot the bog like glitter thrown down from the sky. I hike up to meet them, in my head imagining their reproach, their fear at my newness. There is a digital camera in my pocket for zoomed-in photographs.
But their noses lift to the wind; they can smell my ascension. They turn their small herd towards me, and walk. 
Noses in my backpack, in my hair. I gently run my hands down their necks. Their manes are long and knotted, curled by ocean spray and hard wind. As a child, I was taught that horses will sync their heartbeat to their rider’s. If the rider’s heartbeat rises, the horse knows to be afraid, to be alert. Touching the Eriskay ponies, I consciously keep my heartrate low. They close their eyes when I comb my fingers gently through their forelocks. 
Sometimes at night I cannot sleep because I am busy being worried that I’ll never fall in love again. Someone once told me that if you sleep next to the same person for long enough, your heartbeats will match up while you’re dreaming. I want proof that that’s real but all of the women in my family have run away from loveless marriages and my body was made in their wake. I have not yet stayed in someone’s bed long enough to find out if it’s true. 

I watch one pony guide her baby towards me, but when I extend my hand towards it, the baby steps back behind the mother. I sit down on a boulder, trying to make myself seem smaller, safer. The mother pony smells the top of my head. I reach up to place my palm on her nose while her baby, still just out of my reach, bends down and nurses. The baby and I are eye-level. When the ponies turn to retreat back up the cliff side, it is the mother I talk to in my head: please don’t go, stay with me. 
I take myself to the island’s only pub. The locals pour dark sugary beers and carry their glasses out into the wind, to the picnic tables heated by days and days of bright sun. Right here, right now, there is only one hour of darkness each night. It could be any time of day or night and I wouldn’t know. The locals tell me the name of each pony. They tell me how the ponies are small enough for children to ride and hardy enough to carry baskets of food and supplies. The islander’s way of life was built around this herd so the herd now belongs to everyone— the ponies roam these beaches, this cliffside, these neighborhood streets, because this tiny island is theirs, too. The locals have a saying: “No ponies without the people, no people without the ponies.” 
They tell me the ponies know everything, feel everything. A stampede is rare but has never falsely predicted the loss of one community member. The man who died was buried in the tiny cemetery near the western shore, in a plot that overlooks the ocean. He is buried next to his wife. 
In the morning, I visit their graves. I leave two seashells by their headstones. 
 

Lull 

Across the vinyl benches of the ferry, the women 
lay on their left sides to sleep. Their husbands 
stroke their heads and stare out at the water. I think of why
wedding rings are on the fourth finger of the left hand: 
to touch the vein that runs straight up to the heart. Side to side 
the ferry rocks. When a bird dips low then reappears 
from the ocean froth, I add another tally in my head. Do you 
still love each other? On a different sea, 
activists aboard the Madleen are abducted. Do you still 
love each other? Gaza is being starved. Forty seven birds. 

When the ferry docks, I think of 
the crusts of earth beneath us, pulling 
pulling slowly apart. 

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Katey Funderburgh (she/her) is a queer poet from Colorado. Currently in her last year of GMU's MFA program, Katey teaches undergraduate Creative Writing and Composition courses. Katey also serves as a lead teacher for Poetry Alive!, and as a co-coordinator for the Incarcerated Writers Project. This excerpt and poem are part of a larger creative work that began during Katey's summer Cheuse research in Eriskay, Scotland, and which observes the intersections between bodily autonomy, community care, and a woman's relationship to place and nonhuman animals. Some of Katey's other work appears or is forthcoming in Adroit, The Rumpus, and Best New Poets 2025.