|Apr/May 2007 Poetry|
Hooves Could Fly
Proprioception is the sense of the body in space.
Close your eyes. Rely on your terminal nerve.
Where are your limbs right now?
Where precisely is the thing that will kill you?
This game is sympathetic truth or dare.
Open your eyes. Muscle-memory apprehends
the shape, all melting oils and muscled media,
ears pinned to poll, angry art become horse.
One flawed step and hoof wall meets rib bone
and thereีs a punctured lung, a trachea collapsed,
a career cut short. That, or nothing at all.
I sit in the dark behind the barn, aware
of my unscathed arms and unbroken legs, knowing
precisely the location of my glowing cigarette.