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| Sonya Dorman |
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| Sketch from a loss of memory | ||||
| On Sundays I ran my mare past the church, leaned to her camber at Georgetown Corner throwing sparks from a cobbled curve. "Never run your horse on macadam, or shoot the minister in the heart of his sermon with a hoofbeat," they told me. The neighbor´s boy shines his motorcycles in the evenings. "A bum in boots," they call him. I say: "Better boots than burned ankles." The wet days, I spent soaping my tack until the unguent oozed from the pores of leather, and two weeks braiding a quirt from four strands of rawhide. The boy leans at a windy corner, horsepower roaring between his legs with a smell of burnt grease as sweet as horse sweat. I like him, on Sunday rousing us with his revved engine from our dreams of potato pudding; his mettle pulls my memory up big as the moon over the barn roof. |
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