Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Carousel at Festival Market, 1989

Always I chose the same one-- impaled like the others, by the gleaming
brass pole that fed through its mouth, up its sinuses, up and down it lifted

me in the direction of the roof which sat in the shape of a gold hershey's kiss
over my head. Covered in jewels I found its colors well and equally distributed--

painted like a sun setting over saddle and bridle on a summer day in Kentucky. Who doesnt
find beauty there, in a white horse whose eyes never waver. But glossy, I'd probe my

fingers over them, finger-nail the painted pupil and find also sadness in the shelacked glaze--lifeless as
its body lifted me in enslaved, slow motion grace. I rubbed my hands down

its hard mane in the only externalized evidence of what I imagined to be, but could not yet name,
our mutual brokenness.

Always I chose the same horse, would wait for its back
to become weightless.When the carousel would ring out like a school bell, I'd dash

to her before any other pink'ed girl-child would. With all might I'd fling a leg
high over its back to seat myself on its finger-smoothedness. I was lonely./I was loyal

to an inaminate thing. I was already personifying and attached
to this horse I never named. I didnt know I'd grow up to wonder which Id rather be:

a riding writer or a writing rider, that either way I'd like the sound of the comparison,
the mere assonance would be enough to light me up inside. But back then, it was different,

something sad in my chest was going in slow circles, rising into the air, suspended
as a girl inside a memory would always be.

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