Wounded Horse
Mona lives in a trailer
so she can keep her horse
scoop his shit with her shovel,
that’s love. The railings of
my fingers circle his nostrils
as she thrusts the needle
into his bleeding legs
and I stroke his ears
while white gauze
is draped over his shins
like I would caress
the ears of my lover
lust after him to hear me
gallop the fence
to his wide open fields
with nothing
but the wind on my mane
and the long hoof of my voice.