If I had a secret code,
it would be one of eagles and roosters.
Of stars nesting in blackness.
The simmer of an arced flame and the slow drift of chords through a screen door.
It would be one of time spent with earth between toes.
there is a wild within.
I find her on dirt roads and highways unending.
Horseback in the desert,
high on the mountain and low atop the mesa.
She’s there in the barking of coyotes and the sway of a yucca.
When skin touches skin.
She flows through the canyons of my soul,
carving her way. Hiding in the brush.
Attacking without warning.
Face to face our eyes meet.
I grab her by the muzzle and breathe in.
Why do you deny yourself, he asked.
But when the full moon is obscured in the shadows of what’s right or wrong
one can only guess.
I let go.
I let go of those who bring the rain and hold tight to the sun instead.
I learn to love myself.
The hard parts which used to be soft.
The soft parts which used to be hard – there are so many now it seems.
The voice whispering behind closed doors
never spoken and only thought.
It hurts just the same, doesn’t it?
I am not a cowboy, I don't profess to be.
I am somewhere between horse girl and wanderer.
Between stainless steel and a rusty nail.
I live for the wind and sun,
for the crisp dry mornings.
Riding through false passes and dead ends.
Pistol tight in the small of my back, reins laced between callused fingers.
But always forward.
there is no rear-view mirror on a horse after all
We follow the road for a bit and then turn to cut back along the draw.
Chasing a game trail which never ends.
Weaving through creosote and mesquite
and there I let the horse find his way.
We push through the brush.
Through places where the earth has turned upwards and rocks stand on end.
I stop to let the horse graze and the dogs rest, watching the animals look back and forth until my own stomach growls and we move on past the draw and back to the road again.
I’ve been torn by this book we call life.
Lost in its pages and chapters.
The skin on my hands still cracked,
and the furrow between brows unchanged.
I press on it to stop the pain.
Looking in the mirror always seems harder than looking through a window
We’d be less than human if we weren’t blemished a bit,
imperfect in our perfection.
A constant cast of lovers and haters.
But sometimes looking away is not enough,
you must stay gone a while. You must stay silent.
Fighting the storm.
The wind surges and sea swells within.
And so, I go.
I just go.
I go where the air runs wild,
tangled with musk and pine and the faint memory of campfire.
Where the clouds lay like whispers in the palm of the sky.
If you’re quiet enough you can hear them.
The moon is early tonight,
and sits like a giant hole in the fading light.
Tempting and teasing as if you could just climb this ridge and walk through into
Narnia or some other equally fantastic place.
And in my mind I do.
And I send a message - that the eagle has flown,
That fuckin’ rooster finally crowed,
and a single star fell – one lonely flash of light across velvet.
But the music,
the music never stops
and it rekindles the flame.
It quiets the rooster.
It sets the eagle aflight again.
And those toes…
those toes will never be clean.
And nor should they.