Charade

Cassandra Robison

Blackbirds punctuate equine spines
Then rise in a whoosh of wings at my approach;
I crouch in dangerous grass among autumn asters.

Butterflies swarm like moths, suspicious mares
Nose to clover, watch with one eye wild:
Pretend they do not know me
Pretend my hands are strangers
Pretend I have not felt
The twitch of flesh beneath thigh.

I know you pastured mares,
Hooves long unshod,
Belly-hung to time.

Life is a bore,
But this kind of wind blows horses crazy.
We’ll go berserk,
We’ll run like death is the bettor’s choice,
Run mad enough
To break a blueblood heart.

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