Horse-Driven Men
I can use my body to straddle
or save the universe,
to be a soft animal
for
a man
or woman who knows how to touch
and
travel the surface of my quiet
skin, how to span
the
bridge—
it’s all right to miss my mother
and I do
when
I see the lemon tree
in the courtyard, when I pick
one to slice through
I
see sugar drops, but no ditch reeds,
no
scorpions in sight. Once I
cried a thrum
of
tears.
I surveyed the stars,
like when dad died: our backs to the grass, sucking on rum
lifesavers, red vines, my mother and I gazing at the lost centaur
who succumbed
to a brilliant loss of control
and scattered his armor from pole to pole.
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