The Ride



[Author’s note: “Memory of a reunion after our first separation.” —Ed.]


That night in June.
The hilltop,
the gliding moon,
the riding crop.


The horses’ tethers taut
where they’d been tied.
The wine we’d brought
to liven up the ride.


Her kneecap slightly bruised—
“Let me massage that.”
How lightly she refused.
Her black dressage hat,


shadbelly, vest.
The view: the valley, the village.
Wine on her buttoned breast
in sudden spillage


and the spill mopped
by my hand’s soft brush.
My blush. The hill topped
with a moss like plush.


My face in it.
Her body on my back,
stripped bare in one split
second. The whip crack.


Her gartered thighs,
her clipped commands,
my muffled cries,
her white-gloved hands,


the quirt
the crop
the hurt
“Don’t stop—”


Clouds torn apart
as if by chariots.
Raw dawn. A heart
like Secretariat’s.




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