Monday, October 4, 2010

A Childhood on Horseback

I have become consumed
by this ache that resides within,
bleating loudly on cloudy days
and whispering nightly
in soft plaintive moans.
I feel myself ageing
through bones that grind
clumsily against one another
like teenage awkward lovers.

My scar skulks along
the crest of my hip,
boldly marches its way
to shyer, quiet corners.
With a jagged sneer, the flesh
puckers and grins as I smooth
lotion along the planes
of my physical topography.

As much as I wish
for every day to dawn Sahara,
burning the winter from my bones,
I cannot bring myself to
resent this wound’s residence.
Wishing such a thing would erase
a childhood of running
free without words.

And I am so full of words today
that recalling that dusky stillness
of long, brown-legged summers
in parched pastures
makes the ache retreat.
Eyes closed, I rock
to the inherent three-beat gait
that carried me through
childhood gracefully
and nearly unharmed.

yay[11]

Rest well, Nora Bird.  Your sweetness still lingers.