this stable’s wood is smooth,
stalls varnished in high gloss-
temptation in squares and angles
and the saddles on the wall.
my feet are sinking in sweet hay,
my fingers tense and waiting-
my spine half ampersand,
this stable’s horses stare me down
like monoliths sculpted in flesh,
sleek coats New York would envy
and the curve of ephemeral smiles.
my breath is caught:
sunlight glistens off heaving flanks,
ensconced in white hair,
flecking black hair in (cliche) diamonds.
frozen here, i am a statue
to the horses’ obelisks:
do i suit up and climb astride,
or run away?