Yesterday, 03:31 PM
On Being No Longer In Love
I went sailing for you in the corners of my dream—
the one where I’m not naked, but people still stare?
You weren’t there, but your mother was, leaning
against the wet flank of a big sexy horse
the crew smuggled in with the rum.
Why is it always a horse? Never a burro
or mule, “horse” being too close to “whores”
to begin with — anybody who has lived on a farm
knows a mare will assault you for thinking
too much; a mule is a housecat
in heels. He only wants to feel your fingers
rustle the evergreen leaves of his fur; your mother
would turn up her nose at an apple.
By your mother, I of course mean the horse
—here the wise mule cuts me off, eyes rolled back
like an oracle in vapors. I lean in. Your mother
leans in. We share a look, surprised for once to wind up
on the same side. The horse, meanwhile, can't stand being replaced
as the jewel of attention. Before the sage can speak a word,
she clubs him to death with her hooves.
I went sailing for you in the corners of my dream—
the one where I’m not naked, but people still stare?
You weren’t there, but your mother was, leaning
against the wet flank of a big sexy horse
the crew smuggled in with the rum.
Why is it always a horse? Never a burro
or mule, “horse” being too close to “whores”
to begin with — anybody who has lived on a farm
knows a mare will assault you for thinking
too much; a mule is a housecat
in heels. He only wants to feel your fingers
rustle the evergreen leaves of his fur; your mother
would turn up her nose at an apple.
By your mother, I of course mean the horse
—here the wise mule cuts me off, eyes rolled back
like an oracle in vapors. I lean in. Your mother
leans in. We share a look, surprised for once to wind up
on the same side. The horse, meanwhile, can't stand being replaced
as the jewel of attention. Before the sage can speak a word,
she clubs him to death with her hooves.