February may have killed the neighbor. No one has called. We left two messages. I know the pump to his well stopped. And his stepson Joe was getting desperate.
My mare is crippled. The horse that moves without effort, is hobbled to a gimp, a pulled muscle, an abcess. Soak her hoof two times a day in hot water, epsom salts. She buries the same hoof in snow.
Mud, ankle deep. The gravel washes off the driveway where the ditches filled in.
First Born Goat
First goat, grown up nursing his mother,
belly laughs in wind. Skeleton weed lifts off,
needles me, old barrel woman, tongue tied.
No other kids? Little boy goat, denutted,
his mother and one old woman. Goat leaps,
four ankles painted white, a swatch mixed
tan, cloven hoof, bucks me up thigh high.
I buy the white freezer deep as a casket to
saw goat pieces, parts paper wrapped will
marinate huckleberry wine, June fire roasted.
Steel my finger tips itching for seven inch ear,
my own blubber heart weighted like an iron.
In this rat’s life, wind shifts now a sharper tune,
dirt flings pricked up weeds, a little goat empty of
laughter. Finally, I yell no, we will not slaughter.
Bring me a basket, whole armfuls, kale, cabbage.
Collect buckets, freeze my own damn well water.
Piss poor woman, little goat, start new, already
dreaming to build us an entire oasis walking
a bald track to the blue skied pond, bitter brush,
blue heron tucks in two flying. Little goat stops,
mirrors mountain with water witched this way that.
Boy’s sloped nose, pupils toppled straight as columns,
tight lip grin, a new moon crest: Goat makes me laugh.
PJ
Friday, February 24, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
2/11/12 A Poem of Loose Horses
The Morning the Horses Get Loose
You my-horse-my-heart, and me race for the open upper gate,
your nostrils stretched so wide to guzzle up the next inhale,
arched muscles, neck coiled, all winter expectation unleashed.
Your shoulder jabs, me stumbling, frees you and the red horse.
Both front feet pulling the mist, splatter of mud, leaving me
yelling for husband, deaf, hobbled to an unbalancing disease.
Of course he can not hear. Key’s in the car speeding down,
bent double fog racing muddy hills clefts, my eyes seeking
your white tail yellowed with piss of entire winter, fog, and
sinews of red and white horse shadows, sun lacing through,
only this line of hoof prints pressed deep for keener purchase.
Corner of dirt meeting asphalt, staccato beat double backs,
as if the wrong turn while galloping for a new homestretch.
And I climb out of the car, idling and dinging its alarm, as if
there is nothing in the world but this simple cusp of spring.
Then the roan slows, tamps down the mist by the blue barn.
You silvered, gravity pinned by one hoof, curl to look back.
While the red horse, tired, takes one step in my direction.
Good boy, I call out from this corner, mud meets road where
I am standing empty handed. Is this enough? Tangled hair,
sleep crusted, still dressed in last night’s work clothes,
a scarlet winter coat, black bra abandoned in the pocket.
Am I, so alone, enough to call you home?
But the chestnut roan is trotting back, old horse so sleepy
until you get a hold of him whispering all your past,
the back of the race track rumors and so much flash
a single spray of water turns you liquid mercury.
Red horse finally decides: enough really is enough, while
you spin behind, pissy winter tail held like a fountain.
My back to the snow edged mountain, azure ponds,
I gently unwind the favored blue scarf with silver threads,
twine it around the mud and sweat crusted chestnut neck.
Reach one palm, press against the front legged heat. Good boy.
You pass, kicking gravel, all muscle and ache, next new path,
eyes glistening, gray mane splinters in a sun now dazzling.
Red roan circles me as I spiral within, only a blue scarf…
but you shoot past again, hooves fling sparkling mud to
cha-cha-cha, the steep point of rounded hips tapering.
Still the boy horse stays with me all the way inside the gate,
exactly where you turn to say, never really needed you two
anyway. You say, I am free and four step it up the road.
My husband, white beard, big hands, will come looking, finally
even you allow him, just this last time, to turn back.
You my-horse-my-heart, and me race for the open upper gate,
your nostrils stretched so wide to guzzle up the next inhale,
arched muscles, neck coiled, all winter expectation unleashed.
Your shoulder jabs, me stumbling, frees you and the red horse.
Both front feet pulling the mist, splatter of mud, leaving me
yelling for husband, deaf, hobbled to an unbalancing disease.
Of course he can not hear. Key’s in the car speeding down,
bent double fog racing muddy hills clefts, my eyes seeking
your white tail yellowed with piss of entire winter, fog, and
sinews of red and white horse shadows, sun lacing through,
only this line of hoof prints pressed deep for keener purchase.
Corner of dirt meeting asphalt, staccato beat double backs,
as if the wrong turn while galloping for a new homestretch.
And I climb out of the car, idling and dinging its alarm, as if
there is nothing in the world but this simple cusp of spring.
Then the roan slows, tamps down the mist by the blue barn.
You silvered, gravity pinned by one hoof, curl to look back.
While the red horse, tired, takes one step in my direction.
Good boy, I call out from this corner, mud meets road where
I am standing empty handed. Is this enough? Tangled hair,
sleep crusted, still dressed in last night’s work clothes,
a scarlet winter coat, black bra abandoned in the pocket.
Am I, so alone, enough to call you home?
But the chestnut roan is trotting back, old horse so sleepy
until you get a hold of him whispering all your past,
the back of the race track rumors and so much flash
a single spray of water turns you liquid mercury.
Red horse finally decides: enough really is enough, while
you spin behind, pissy winter tail held like a fountain.
My back to the snow edged mountain, azure ponds,
I gently unwind the favored blue scarf with silver threads,
twine it around the mud and sweat crusted chestnut neck.
Reach one palm, press against the front legged heat. Good boy.
You pass, kicking gravel, all muscle and ache, next new path,
eyes glistening, gray mane splinters in a sun now dazzling.
Red roan circles me as I spiral within, only a blue scarf…
but you shoot past again, hooves fling sparkling mud to
cha-cha-cha, the steep point of rounded hips tapering.
Still the boy horse stays with me all the way inside the gate,
exactly where you turn to say, never really needed you two
anyway. You say, I am free and four step it up the road.
My husband, white beard, big hands, will come looking, finally
even you allow him, just this last time, to turn back.
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