ONE WEEK LEFT Y'ALL
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We are, after all, talking
about an animal measured
in "hands," measured
from the ground up to the place
where neck meets shoulders, called
a magical word: the "withers."
Hands and more you'll need, teeth,
bridles, bits, reigns, this frothing herd
is rearing to race but you
have to hold them.
Back.
Weave your fingers
into their manes, take the reigns
between your lips, bite down hard.
Think on lakes and let the calm
trickle down your hands and in
through their hides. Less grip
and more stable until it's time
to let
go.
1 comment:
I think I'll have to start posing as someone else. Maybe a new identity so it doesn't look like I'm haunting your blog.
I like this poem a lot. Great rhythm and imagery. Loving your poetry this April.
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