Snug Guns

One took the place of the horse. Split
ropes, dun hearse, he

dragged the crippled wagon
over a hillock of bees.

The rest of us inside—I, up front—
rode and cocked our guns

against an army of muscle
and hum. Our crepe paper

faces awake.
This is the pine needle

I shoved deep in hand
to remind me of my hand.

Teach me how to swathe myself—
a private binding—

against the arrival of hooves.



*Published in Court Green