One Horse Town
and so what
named after some other town &
spidered by streets named for
trees you’ve never seen
sounds like fire, now. like
flint spark plume. smother. escape. trying
to erase your name from the too-narrow
-one-lane entrance with your heel.
you’ve repeated to the morning mirror
—the thread. the past. the apples
that gripped your baby teeth, still
in the garage, upside-down,
your old bicycle, wheels spinning along
an open road of air.
everything but your bones
a trespass. and your bones, too.
the map in your palm. and the flame.
and that one missing shingle,
all the unpainted interiors,
and the bones interred
a week before your return
and, finally, your return.
the rain, and moving through
the rain that same horse
you named after a king
who saw home even in
the furthest edges of the world
nuzzles up to the mound
as if smelling you in it.
|Copyright © 1999 – 2023 Juked|