He Feeds His Horse Dandelions
BY MEG DERMODY.
See how delicate the hand, the pinch
spraying amber so joyful it vibrates
countless asterisms clustered in a gift
see him approach his charge from behind
how tender and thrilled his gait
how still the horse, heavy under saddlery
his bowed head, the man sinking to meet him
ginger jaw plucking up the flowers
a jaw that could crush
and an actor cradling it with soft palms
see, too, the woman misplaced in time
bare wrist constricted by the reins
firm hand freezing the horse in place
he turns toward the gift to avoid her hands
seeking permission for wildflower sin
or seeking absolution, fearing blinders
not being useful never tasting dandelions again
warm tracks across the flesh where a strap cut
running nowhere forever or never running again
pulsing voice of his trainer and a hoof hitting wrong
the indulgent tug of the reins, some man’s
unintelligible cry. loving dandelions.
letting a man he hardly knows woo him,
touch under his eye with an open hand,
for wet green flesh he cannot choose himself.
Meg Dermody is a poet and lecturer based in southwest Colorado by way of the American South. Her work appears in Landfill, Obliterat, PWATEM, and other zines and micro-publications. She writes toward surreal ecologies of the body: poems where grief and intimacy tangle with hauntings, creaturely transformations, and the divine/grotesque/divine. Meg teaches at Fort Lewis College and spends her time thinking about domestic strangeness, eco-mysticism, and how to be porous to a landscape. You can follow her on Instagram @stultifies.