Tana Jean Welch

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.