The boots were on the couch and had manure on their heels and tips. The cowgirl with vermilion udders and ears that tasted of cream pulled on her jeans. The saddle is not sore and the crotch with its directionless brain is pounded by hammers. Less like flowers than grease fittings women win us to a life of holes, their negative space. I don't know you and won't. You look at my hairline while I work, conscious of history, in a bottomless lake. Thighs that are indecently strong and have won the West, I'll go back home where women are pliant as marshmallows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 6. NIGHT LANDING by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER THE CREATION (A NEGRO SERMON) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON MOTHER O' MINE by RUDYARD KIPLING HE FELL AMONG THIEVES by HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT |