So you’re a horse girl, he says,
\nsmiles as though we are somehow afflicted,
\nsomehow convergent with dark rutted fantasy.
\nYes, we are the ones who dream
\nin pale sparrow grass,
\nwho tick our tongues at the sunfisher,
\nclimb on, barely breathing,
\nknowing fear could fill a field,
\nsnap a spine like tinder.
\nWe ride bareback
\nto watch the boys squirm
\nat the insistence in their minds:
\nwe will always find something to hold on to.<\/p>\n
Belly muscles quiver beneath our legs
\nwhile the struts of rib cage,
\nlarge enough to envelop the sky-licked lake
\ncarry us through backwater country,
\nout to where we no longer hear the highway,
\nno longer fear a moment with a gelding,
\na hatchback, car horn,
\nsomething even the horse girls can’t anticipate.<\/p>\n
There is memory through tiger lily switchbacks, —Tammy Armstrong<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" So you’re a horse girl, he says, smiles as though we are somehow afflicted, somehow convergent with dark rutted fantasy. Yes, we are the ones who dream in pale sparrow grass, who tick our tongues at the sunfisher, climb on, barely breathing, knowing fear could fill a field, snap a spine like tinder. We ride bareback to watch the boys… Read more →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":13,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-824","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","xfolkentry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p5UQvw-di","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/824","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/13"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=824"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/824\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=824"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=824"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=824"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\na tongue-twist around a bit,
\na muzzle soft as deer moss, old denim,
\nsnuffling over a palm, searching
\nhorse girls who smell
\nof sunburn and barnyard dogs.
\nNo longer child-women,
\nbut extensions of broomtails,
\nof Sable Island<\/a> serenity
\nin love with no one
\nas we crawl easily over,
\nurge the gate open with a tanned foot,
\ngone while the light still holds above.<\/p>\n