Suzanne Richardson
THE NIGHT I KNEW I LOVED YOU I DREAMED I WAS A SMALL HORSE IN YOUR HAND
I tongue at your seasonal lakes.
Watch the creases
grow in your creeks,
prehistoric.
The soft minerals, hydrology,
of your hand.
I am a mare
of your offerings, a mosaic.
Nourished in the longitude
& latitude of you.
Cantering the ecoregions
of your hand,
I nuzzle the palmistry.
Sometimes you tease me,
whisper
show me your horsepower.
I gallop down
your wrists.
This makes you laugh.
The white stars of your teeth
guide me
to the caves of you.
I want you to ride me
but we know
it would crush me
& you don’t want to hurt me,
invalidate
my horse needs,
so you tell me
you’ll try another time.
Will there be another time?
I am precious
not powerless.
I threaten to run away.
You stretch your fingers
out, say go
if you want to go. I snort
& stamp.
You touch my tail.
We are so surreal
together, I say,
caressing your palm
with my hooves.
No, we are factual.
But look at us!
I cry. I push.
If we were surreal,
there would be
a ladder, an elephant,
maybe a window,
arrows, something
melting. I would know.
I’ve been surreal before
you say.
Oh? I say.
Oh. You say.
You cup me into the deep
of your palm,
pretend to drink me,
which tickles.
I pull your real fingers
over me to sleep,
where we dream
separate dreams all night
together.
