Rock

Let me dispel this one: I never
had an orgasm girl-on-horse

and I was the girl
who had the horse—

a plump, belligerent morgan: Philly
(no end of snickers in the girl-jammed stables

for the homophone and though I was not the one
who named her).

No or-
gasm. It wasn’t like that. It was:

the huge carroty swindle, muck-
to-pick, curry and rake-to-shine

as she dozed, left rear hoof cocked, her mildest
hour. When finally I was seated, she stopped

in the middle of the nature trot
or sweet, watching street: mule

(her witch-eyes, her timing),
inert.

I had a crop of stinging
leather, boots with vicious heels

and I used them, see-sawed
oiled reins

purchased separately
from bridle purchased separate-

ly from silver bit (that’s the way, you see—
complicated, precise, in-

ept) as she listened to me (rai-
ded of authority) rant.

She was as obedient
as a struck child

when I dismounted, led her home
hissing

you are going somewhere bad.
She went

to an emerald farm in Oregon
and I married a man (at 17—

O America!) 3 times my age—
his great paw scooping, will unchecked. It

was
like that. Meanwhile, on the emerald farm

at 14 Philly gave birth. Freak.
A fresh mother! Un-

der his roof, I remembered the witch-
eyes, her subjugated’s rock-

stance. I remembered: brushing
her in our trance, her muzzle

seeking my left ear—how she breathed in-
to me.
And what was my love? Dear
god. Well, I gave what I had.