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Love Story

My body has never been my body.

It has been a bucket of asphalt

upside down in the puerile wind. 

My horse faltered at the finish line.

I whipped it and it plunged forth,

like froth on the crest of a wave.

My horse is my body: my body,

my horse.  Slick flank, waxen

hair—do not bother to do

the math.  My mouth is full

of epithet; my horse is fat

and tame.  Touch me.

Announce yourself.

Now is the heroic age.

Posted 10/18/15
This poem first appeared in The New Yorker.
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