Bunching Up
Early morning quiet broken
By tiny flutters of chirp and flit
Sand haulers rattling by
An empty field
Its dusted path
Encircling tumbleweed
I jump and barefoot climb aboard
My red-coated soul-extension
Who meets the Earth
On four solid toes
Set down one by one
Long and cool
Only an exhaled snort
To punctuate a rising summer sun.
We breathe together
The lifting scents
Of dewed brush
Absorbing expectation
Through lightness
Of fingertips to nylon rope
Sweet copper to tongue
Confident legs
Hang unhurried
Until we gain
The starting place
Where heartbeats build
Gathering in
The slightest shift
A gentle shortening of line.
We take a moment
To lower gravity
Flickering curves
Twitch attuned
To molecules
Pulled jittering
Nostrils to lungs
Filling with fuel
Every muscle a match
Preparing to strike.
I raise my chin
He bunches
Trembling power
Loosened
He tucks, tilts
Ignites.
We fly!
Spring is for ponies
I ache for horses in springtime more than any other time of year. What is that about? Is it because of ponies and spring breaks? When you’re a child you say always a lot. Always, as if time stood still and every year was the same. I remember I always made plans with Roxanna for spring break, although it couldn’t have been more than two years, maybe three at the most. Mom would drop me off at six fifteen before going to work and pick me up around three in the afternoon. I was thirteen, fourteen, maybe fifteen. I had my own horse, but the ranch owner, Mary Lou, let me take out her perfect pony, Scooter, pretty much whenever I wanted. And ponies were lower, splashier, better for this kind of ride. Scooter was a round handsome little thirteen-hand pinto, comfy as a couch to ride bareback, no emotional issues, nothing but fun. And Roxy would ride her pony, NuNu. He was all pony, that is, he was wily, not mean, but prankish, all dressed up in extra fluffy mane and Clydesdale stockings. I rode NuNu only one time, and not for long, because Brenda knew if she passed him by on another horse he would be sure to leave me on the ground—which he did. I went right to the ground from his rump to mine, laughing, so much laughter! But back to spring break adventures. . . Roxy and I would set out bareback. We had on our tennis shoes, shorts and T-shirts over bathing suits. But we knew the shoes and tees would be left on the sand somewhere. No, there was no beach. This was San Diego, but this was low-class rural East County. We boarded our horses next to the sand mine where during the week the noise was deafening between the sandmine machines and the rows of cages of Mexican fighting cocks raised next door. We set out with nothing, no water, no sunscreen, nothing we would be sure to carry these days. Nothing. Only a trail ride in mind. We called it the water trail. It was the San Diego River and it only ran sometimes and never for long. We took advantage. Did our parents know what we did? I don’t know. I guess so. It wasn’t a secret. I am grateful for the adventures, but I can’t imagine letting my own kids go, letting my own daughter go anywhere she wanted like that, not with all the dangers. Roxy and I would drop down into the riverbed, under the sixty-seven bridge and keep going. Everything was grown over with trees and bamboo and brush, but the sand was deep and somewhere past El Cap high school, past El Monte Road, the water would appear. As soon as there was a trickle, we’d take off our shoes and shirts, leaving them on the bank, and set off at a canter splashing between the trees, no sign of humanity, only the meandering stream, the leaves and cloudless blue sky above, the only sounds the sandy rhythmic squelch and splash of cantering hooves mingled with our jokes and laughter. God but I am grateful to have lived those days of gritty dirt and furry rubbed-raw thighs, the smell of horse sweat, the mud and sunburns, innocent fun—and ponies. . . All in the stolen space between the complications of adolescent hauntings. The simple moments we grabbed before everything changed forever.
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
I’m still here. . . Thinking of you readers while I’m editing and it seemed like you might enjoy a new poem and an unedited memory. After you read the poem, you might try listening to Def Leppard’s Rocket, just for fun.
Much of Things That Can’t Be Broken grew from the same place in my imagination that holds these memories.
The unedited stream-of-consciousness block format was inspired by Eleanor Anstruther’s A Memoir in 65 Postcards & The Recovery Diaries. She is releasing a new novel this month, by the way: Fallout. I’m looking forward to reading it.
That’s it for now. I hope you’re having a fantastic week, my friends!