Bareback

Don’t you ever get lonely, he asked.

I understand, I don’t like people either

but sometimes, he said, I just need them.

Big toes tucked into the start of the crook of the croup

Into the dark dun stripe

Little toes flared back, pressed into hot slick coat

I’d brushed, curry first, then hard straw,

then smooth soft, then shine

Three hours, starting at daybreak

When he and I blew mist to the air

When he and I looked into each other

When he turned his head from the hitching rail

and I fell into that rich brown there

And he told me he knew how I cared for him

He told me he knew

And he didn’t lie

A horse won’t lie to you

My toes in the crook of the croup

In the stripe of his dun

Knees in low ribs

Collar bone on his withers

Breasts on each side, holding me centered

We’d been hours in

through the head-shaking, snorting, dancing gait

We’d settled and found a place

where grasses brushed mid-barrel

My cheek set between his shoulder and neck

He rocked a clomping rhythm

My body bent with his

bareback measure

That’s what I thought of

and I shook my head, no.

I don’t have casual relationships, I said,

I’d rather be alone.


Originally published by Shark Reef.

Photo: Pickles, three years old, still time to grow, Smiley Road, 1977.