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What The Fuck Was That

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By πš”πš˜πš›πš’πš—πšŠ πšŒπšŠπš–πšŽπš• Published about a year ago β€’ Updated about a year ago β€’ 2 min read
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I wonder what the horse was thinking

when she bucked and bellowed and clanged, her hind legs statuesque

rooted like Kingcup cactus in the gravel-riddled Nevada desert,

her forearms kicking up in the dry July air. Was she thinking

she may end up murdering the little human in a blur of disturb

clinging to her bare back? Was she envisioning the end

of her nice horse life as glittering green bursts of happy fire

reflected back in her lacquer looking glass eyes? Was she fearful

for her horse children galloping in their unawareness to the terrors

of rockets' red glare against a backdrop of snowless Sierra mountains?

β€Ž

it was almost premonitory

how I didn't want to mount the lady beast to begin with; how

that Sunday, while mom slipped in for a quick shower, I downed Cap'n

Crunch like all-you-can-eat desire before realizing

the milk had gone sour. It'll be fun mom said. I'd've killed

to ride a horse when I was your age she lectured lovingly.

Still, it seemed unsound to subjugate this divine wildling

for amusement's sake the day after celebrating our own freedom.

But what do kids know about independence and horse business?

I was three-fourths flung, curdling belly and all, when the far-from-bright

boys next-door decided to let loose all their leftover explosives.

I imagined my still-growing skeleton shattered across the white dirt,

bleeding red underneath a cloudless blue sky β€Žβ€” before summersaulting

away from where my body would have been had I tried to tame

the animal-tempest ten jillion times greater than me.

β€Ž

In the aftermath,

while horse-girl Grace apologized profusely for the American Paint's

unladylike behavior, I thanked the horse gods, and the real gods

for those three years of gymnastics mom insisted would pay off down

the line. Ruminating longer than an eleven year-old is accustomed to:

the way the horse looked at me, perspicaciously, like we had Botvinnik'd

death's gambit; how my life could have been cut short, gone out with

a flash-bang of onomatopoeias... had mom not been right about one thing.

surreal poetrynature poetry
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About the Creator

πš”πš˜πš›πš’πš—πšŠ πšŒπšŠπš–πšŽπš•

πš πš’πšπš‘πš’πš— πšπš‘πšŽπšœπšŽ πš πš˜πš›πšπšœ πš›πšŽπšœπš πšπš‘πšŽ πš–πš˜πšœπš πš’πš—πšπš’πš–πšŠπšπšŽ πš™πš˜πšœπšœπšŽπšœπšœπš’πš˜πš—β€“ πš–πš’ πšπš‘πš˜πšžπšπš‘πšπšœ.

β™‘ πšŠπš•πš• πšπš’πš™πšœ πšŠπš™πš™πš›πšŽπšŒπš’πšŠπšπšŽπš πšŠπš—πš πš™πšŠπš’πš πšπš˜πš›πš πšŠπš›πš β™‘

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