Like a Rolling Stone

she strode to the podium,

her ponytail swishing,

black eyes snapping,

she reared and nipped, flashed

teeth, her tongue-tip licked

her lips before she spit

out the poem that ignited

the dry grass in the dead field,

turned the corral fence

to charcoal poles

and sent the stallions stampeding

for the timber, lathered

and ecstatic, penises

batting against their thighs.

She nickered and stomped,

would not be denied.

Her nostrils flared.

She felt the wind in her hair,

and the audience wept, shattered,

found their feet and hands—

wild horses couldn’t drag her away.

She could not be bridled,

and the only saddle she’d wear

she carried in her bones every day.


for Sheryl Noethe

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