by Rose Hunter
on your beach, that’s right, next to your
palm door, and it was you
who put that boulder there, Atlas-like
for me to sit on. They:
are two, a brown and a speckled
emerging from the tent flap
jungle mist and past the water
peridot and green beryl:
emerald: horses: you’ve
been thrown, bit, kicked
stomped–I’m not surprised.
You can’t go at a horse like that.
Like what? Barging. Leading with
everything. Horses: should
always wear emerald
that way their foghorn faces, badger
and skunk striped jug heads. That way
their jug-a-lug. Whiskered snubbling
while embroidered napkins
in glasses; that way their ear
twitchery. What odd animals
what freaks, completely, to
lumber into view while I sit
on his beach, that’s right
the boulder he put there, yes sir
then single file past, following
the bit: the screen, flat, and green.
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Rose Hunter’s writing can be found at her blog / page, Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have to Take Me Home. Her first book of poetry, to the river, was recently published by Artistically Declined Press. |
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 