Friday, December 17, 2010

Poem: The Pasture on Sackett Road

If I chose to sit, I’d find
a bit of bare grass among
mines of manure flaking beige
under the sun, nowhere

to lean, the wire fence rusted
and slack, anything rigid
forbidden: no pails or rakes,
or let alone chairs. Horses

have a gift for entanglement.
At thirteen, my jeans
were filthy from hours
cross-legged on the ground,

passive in a land
of larger forces, fleck
of blue in a brown eye,
quake of flesh,

hocks and gaskins flexed
in everyday elegance,
a sweltering land
of sweet and grass

and the endless perambulations
of a dozen wise horses,
their tails the flags
of our small nation.


(appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, 2004)

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