Something Old, Something Blue

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Rounding The Woman


We spoke of Oklahoma skies, blue
scribbled with children's clouds
and the Marlboro man that broke her tender
angel wings; his dusty boots under the edge
of his teen bride’s bed.

I was lost for the afternoon, dreaming
of the grass in waves, the ranch hands
dusted with sweat and the scent of horses.
Washboard roads, well traveled
by beat up red trucks and country tunes,
jangling the dog perched in back.
I can smell it there.
Hear the slow lazy dance of the land
that forms the men and women
into the stock they are.

I had said to you
I was raised around horses,
but I left out
the heartbeat that goes with
being a cowboy;
foaling time, breaking time.
The grass is thigh high
in the mountain meadows
when the stallions are rounded
and sired to the best, (only the best).
Your stallion was like that;
seeing you
(his blue eyes fringed with faded lashes)
standing by the ring, your hand
raised to ward of the sun.

Perhaps you wore that same expression
slipping it on over your disappointment
during his bootless sex making,
you listening for the sound of love
to walk in
across the wide plank floor.
He saw you like that and knew
you were something he needed to round
and break, greedy for your eagerness, the bit
(never metallic) in your mouth
reminding you he was master.

I was lost for that afternoon
(thank you)
in your graceful Oklahoma
thinking of all the beautiful poems
I would not write, but that you
will sing from your fingers