Mar 18, 2017
insides
The horse, of course. The sound of want. Carnage
hungry for more. Curious fingertips
that reach in deep, so, and pull her out; smudge
her over my thigh until nothing drips
but her insides, not yours. Nothing left but
the splayed leaf, the petrol, the dew to husk
her out, to clot her in, to hear the soot
sing of chaos: “She comes, gentle-down dusk
falling, coaxing the dead mare; She that shies
from boot and lash.” And now we are godless;
now that dusk has come and night's mare confounds
me, has tasted flesh, left me with smudged thighs,
the ewe's cravings. Fingertips curious
for more chaos. More kinds of dark. More sounds.
