1. notes

    3 years ago

    El Vaquero

    El Vaquero

    When I woke to find you staring from behind a mountain

    of smoke, framed by the riotous orange wallpaper and

    the delicate bedposts, I knew our story would

    never be told. I knew I could not speak your name

    the right way, curling from my mouth and through

    my arched, frenetic fingers. We would be a story in thirds,

    scattered and incomplete like gunpowder, told in your

    saloon’s shadow and transfigured by high noon, melodious

    footsteps, and a horse. The horse is important.  I’ll

    recall your hand on the flank. I’ll recall

    the three nights’ ride and the foam on your knuckles

    and the sweat clinging to your yellow whiskers.

    Afterward, after the lies—25 years of nothing and

    Our story is nothing—afterward, go back to the

    beginning. Part the smoke like a woman’s hair and smear

    your lips down my braid, my arms still covered and proper.

    No jacking my petticoats with your sand-bitten nails, I say.

    No flicker of your pupils in the fire, no heat in the

    heat. I tell no nights soaking in stars and snake venom.

    Just of three-feet distances between and spitting out grit,

    blood, bits of sky. Above, it stretches

    over and around to beneath you, so long, so old.

    We tread clouds and cornbread, fingers licked, locked

    in saddles.

    Watched True Grit today

    Westerns are Awesome

    First draft

    Free Write