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Linda Jenkins
Mammals at Twilight
Horses four—
two dark, two pale
and paler—what warmth,
what mighty reform
over the pasture
in which you snort
and toss: grass now
has a memory of snow
as you have a memory
of His tongue
across your eyelashes,
His one show
of tenderness
before the strap—
which is why you are soft,
why you tremble
when you move.
If I do so,
I am in anger.
Having been carried
here, to adulthood,
by that hulk,
I am befuddled:
it will take me no further.
What or who will look
to find me—
What or who will know
to strike me—
drifting and reticent
—with this heart?
Copyright © by Linda Jenkins 2005. All rights reserved. |