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Libby Hart-I

O my love, I have compared thee to a horse



Each time I place my hands on his muzzle,

on the wet-warmth of his nipping mouth,

I sense his quiver, his ripple.

His length of secrets.


His stomp and neigh,

hoof and heel,

trot and gallop.

His cannon and pastern.


I feed him apples and carrots,

treat him as stallion or wildest horse,

for all of his fire is knotted at knee,

is kindled at the hung fruit saddled at hind leg.


I will never rein him in.

I will always ride bareback.

He: with mane in his eyes.

He: with freedom in his tail.




Note: The title of this poem is a variation of Song of Solomon (1:9):

‘I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses’.