when I ride give me not a saddle but the force of blood-filled muscles moving against my thighs and salt- wet hair rubbing moist threads from jeans let me not ride to save myself from walking but to fill with wind and thunder as we gallop pressed so close hooves and breath our mine
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
Hey, this is really an excellent poem. I love it.
Thank you so much. My friend’s photo/horse really captured it.