Galloping

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 are mine

Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem. Thank you N. Garvin for your beautiful photo of Charly.