Happy Easter to you!
It continues to amaze me the legions of poets out there writing exquisite verse like the one below, artists that I am fortunate enough to stumble upon, time and again, in my travels, by land and keyboard.
Case in point is today`s offering:
Fists I Thought Were Made To Hold the Reins
by Brooks Haxton
Catfish, lacking scales, are beautiful
in their repulsive way, but they will give you
an infected wound if you’re not careful.
The filets I rubbed with cayenne, chili, salt,
and ginger, skillet hot and dry, then drowned
with lemon. Even the kids, who don’t eat fish,
left none. My wife and I stopped brooding,
and my right hand opened with me staring
into the empty palm, long having, if I ever
knew, forgotten when and how the reins
slipped free. I love equestrians,
but I let go the reins, unlike my heroes,
lacking their authority.
An unimaginable horse
is rippling at a gallop far away, unshod,
with hoof beats as impermanent as stars.
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