stolen home
summers spent at the pony camp for girls, idyllic in their fantasy world
I spent my time there, on the farm
breathing in the young spirits
watering my wilting roots--
three weeks in the middle
of things, in the middle
of the end.
eighty horses, hills,
little girls in PJs and
muck boots
and girls whose childhoods
were rooted in the land,
No,
this isn’t the place where
I got high for the first time.
smoking
at the homestead after circle game,
vespers, and the emergence
of heavy stars
this isn’t the place where
I watched three horses fall dead
in a single summer,
Gruffy’s body lying in the sand under
a blanket until sunrise, Gunner still
screaming out to him
this isn’t the place where I overdosed
on Benadryl then loaded a bus to the
Cheshire Fair—
Southern New Hampshire’s
summer glory – I must ask, can you lock me
in that cabin,
bunk 8, and allow me to stay a while?—
I must ask the girls in muck boots
with hay rash,
braided hair, headlamps
and Starbursts
in their dresser drawer
About the Creator
Elsie Coen
i am a middle school teacher whose words are not always appropriate for the classroom, but I'm sure as hell they've run their course through those kids' minds. salivate over the words and chew them until they're yours and only yours.
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