Some afternoons, you give me sugar

cubes to feed the horses.

 

I learn to tuck my thumb in

and flatten my hand;

 

learn the soft lap of long tongues,

and the shape of those ivory teeth,

 

blank scrabble tiles

which spell their names:

 

Sparky, Ginger, Dolly, Ruthie.

Eventually, I learn how to slip a bit

 

in a mare’s mouth, and settle a forelock

over bridle leather.

 

I learn to saddle a horse

and ride into the orchard

 

alone. On horseback,

my head brushes the bottoms of clouds.

 

I canter above the earth,

running with another creature’s legs.

 

In May, apple blossoms float like notes.

I pluck music from the air

 

and ride back with bouquets of songs

in the vase of my throat.