Issue 7 | Summer 2010

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.


Filed under: Prose