All of this war for
a curling acre of skin
pushing against
the door of the night.

You knock
at my heaving chest.
I offer to refuse,
but we dance along anyway.  

The rest of the work
is *******.

Some have hands
for creases, others
hold hands better for boxing.

I am from a land
of talk; a land
of double-tap-for-a-like
religion.

Here, the wind
carries our spines for us.  

Here, we don’t eat
anything straight
from the bowl.

I named my horse Goldie
for no other reason except
that it seemed true to her.  
She wanted to show courage
and join the fight.
I told her that having courage is sometimes sitting
on the sidelines;
polishing our fists,
waiting to walk away.

I told her I just want to find what
this earth has to offer
and then walk myself home.