Susan Dane

Men dream the day
they find the woman on a horse,
hair in the wind,
cantering.
Unmeasured ecstasy.
A magazine dream.
Deep down,
they fear the affluence
and speed;
One day she will discover
the shallow well,
the short night,
how small their manhood really is.
So after a time they pull back,
feign fatigue,
tuck in limp to sleep,
remind her of her helplessness.

Your body becomes
a clay drenched field,
muddy veins, skin gray.
Joined in holy union
to your privation,
slogging, slow, alone,
you pull the horse on foot,
by his lead.