"I will be your mother figure." New York Times. Dec 28, 2014.
The Horse May Laugh
this beast
comes rushing in, kicks the door down, knocks
over the heirloom porcelain lamp your mother left you, the one
with the blue roses, the white
peonies, the red birds, now just little bits
of sand and glass on the carpet, which the beast
is busy tearing up, has a tassle
from the rug between his teeth, is shaking it back and forth as if
it were the tail of a rat and he were a dog, you throw
the light by the nightstand on, the beast
seems startled by this, stands sweating, chest heaving, everything
all askew, black eyes
glittering like broken bottles, empty bottles, his hooves
have taken the wax from the hardwood but the beast
himself is gleaming
Tom, you say, your voice is soft and weak
in this watery lighting
i would like to weave ribbons into your mane
everything is very still, but the radio is on, Tom
sits down with some difficultly in a nearby armchair, tries
to pour himself a scotch but without thumbs he cannot get
the top of the bottle off, stares longingly at his glass, says
well, now i just feel foolish, lick his lips, laughs, you know
full well this is a joke at your expense but you find yourself laughing too
