IMPOSSIBLE TO WHISPER HER RACING MIND DOWN
Whenever you talk about stable housing,
I think of horses, she says.
When my mother was my age,
She used to break horses on the res,
What a badass! I could do it, too, bareback.
You make friends with the horse first,
She’s cantering around, spooked,
You whisper in her ear how beautiful she is,
She with her straight hair and you with your angled,
You lean your hair against hers, and she knows.
You ask her permission to swing up on top,
Feel the rocket strength of her between your legs
Where I am strong, too, where I carry my people’s beauty.
Then you grab her by the mane
And ride, fast, through the long, green grass of the res.
And then you slow, slow until it’s logical to get down again.
Except for the horseshit, she says, I don’t think I would mind stable housing.
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