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They don't hold me; they hold on to me
who yank my mane and ride out into an oasis they imagine
where the wineskin's never dry
the figs are moist
the goat meat rare
and incense fills the space between the stars.

Under my hooves the sand turns black and wet for them
in fertile clumps that will compact and hold
the seed of the mirage they pump.

Inside the tents of spice and poppy smoke
a cornucopia spills.
The plenty rolls and rolls and splits and spreads.
The juice runs down the funnel of their smacking mouths.
Their gold teeth gleam;
their urgent sighs rattle in my throat like tiny deaths.

When he was gone —
the one who didn't pay,
who said there is repair for all of this,
whose tongue I searched for the host —
it seemed as though I'd dreamed it.

And yet there is a difference to the days.
I wash the gummy trail of them away, my haunches clean.
Pasture was the promise.
Now in dreams I am the whore of heaven
and only angels mount me.

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