Whinny like You’re 12

Poetry

Horse Sketch

Hell yes I can ride. I was ridin when I fell off. – Cormac McCarthy

My belly’s flopped on a bed of hay — a pil- low on my bed; I draw horsies: burnt sienna, yellow, black; inhaling Crayola; dusky animal scent

Hell, yes, I can ride I am a barrel racer I am a buckaroo-ess

Did Cormac ride
when he was 12?
Rub the ponies, talk to them? Flat hand them sugar cubes, breathe into their nostrils,
pick green gunk from their feet?

Did he fall off?
I long to fall off — have to be on to be off.

Isabel Wolfe-Frischman has published stories in The Paterson Review, The Listening
Eye, and Trajectory, among others, and poetry in Bear Creek Haiku and Walk Write Up.