of wild horses coiling under the whip.
she stands with her head high - ears back - hoof split,
stomping the ground in the quiet rhythm of life,
spit lathered from the heat of it.
she is a war cry, pressed between my lips.
they cinch her in.
i watch as she shakes her frame in opposition,
chomping the bit because they want her belly up,
she says, tethered to men.
but my mother is a wooden heart,
a cow kick poised and ready and
she will slip the saddle like a mule,
braying her wrath into the sky until it tears at the seams
my mother is a spur with words:
pressed against the back of a spotted horse.
she is painted red.
caballero beware
03/27/2007
Posted on 03/27/2007
Copyright © 2025 Christina Butcher
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Jim Moore on 08/13/07 at 03:13 PM I susprised that I'm the first one to comment on this piece. It's a fresh, well-written piece and I thoroughly enjoyed it. |
| Posted by Jared Fladeland on 03/09/08 at 08:03 PM what a beautiful description. this reminds me of my mother and her mother (or, my grandmother, I suppose). but yes. loved it. |
