SWENSON, May


Question

Body my house

my horse my hound

what will I do

when you are fallen

Where will I sleep

How will I ride

What will I hunt

Where can I go

without my mount

all eager and quick

How will I know

in thicket ahead

is danger or treasure

when Body my good

bright dog is dead

How will it be

to lie in the sky

without roof or door

and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift

how will I hide?


The Centaur

The summer that I was ten–

Can it be there was only one

summer that I was ten? It must

have been a long one then–

each day I'd go out to choose

a fresh horse from my stable

which was a willow grove

down by the old canal.

I'd go on my two bare feet.

But when, with my brother's jack-knife,

I had cut me a long limber horse

with a good thick knob for a head,

and peeled him slick and clean

except a few leaves for the tail,

and cinched my brother's belt

around his head for a rein,

I'd straddle and canter him fast

up the grass bank to the path,

trot along in the lovely dust

that talcumed over his hoofs,

hiding my toes, and turning

his feet to swift half-moons.

The willow knob with the strap

jouncing between my thighs

was the pommel and yet the poll

of my nickering pony's head.

My head and my neck were mine,

yet they were shaped like a horse.

My hair flopped to the side

like the mane of a horse in the wind.

My forelock swung in my eyes,

my neck arched and I snorted.

I shied and skittered and reared,

stopped and raised my knees,

pawed at the ground and quivered.

My teeth bared as we wheeled

and swished through the dust again.

I was the horse and the rider,

and the leather I slapped to his rump

spanked my own behind.

Doubled, my two hoofs beat

a gallop along the bank,

the wind twanged in my mane,

my mouth squared to the bit.

And yet I sat on my steed

quiet, negligent riding,

my toes standing the stirrups,

my thighs hugging his ribs.

At a walk we drew up to the porch.

I tethered him to a paling.

Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt

and entered the dusky hall.

My feet on the clean linoleum

left ghostly toes in the hall.

Where have you been? said my mother.

Been riding, I said from the sink,

and filled me a glass of water.

What's that in your pocket? she said.

Just my knife. It weighted my pocket

and stretched my dress awry.

Go tie back your hair, said my mother,

and Why is your mouth all green?

Rob Roy, he pulled some clover

as we crossed the field, I told her.


Southbound on the Freeway

A tourist came in from Orbitville,

parked in the air, and said:

The creatures of this star

are made of metal and glass.

Through the transparent parts

you can see their guts.

Their feet are round and roll

on diagrams or long

measuring tapes, dark

with white lines.

They have four eyes.

The two in the back are red.

Sometimes you can see a five-eyed

one, with a red eye turning

on the top of his head.

He must be special—

the others respect him,

and go slow

when he passes, winding

among them from behind.

They all hiss as they glide,

like inches, down the marked

tapes. Those soft shapes,

shadowy inside

the hard bodies—are they

their guts or their brains?


The Woods At Night

The binocular owl,

fastened to a limb

like a lantern

all night long,

sees where all

the other birds sleep:

towhee under leaves,

titmouse deep

in a twighouse,

sapsucker gripped

to a knothole lip,

redwing in the reeds,

swallow in the willow,

flicker in the oak -

but cannot see poor

whippoorwill

under the hill

in deadbrush nest,

who's awake, too -

with stricken eye

flayed by the moon

her brindled breast

repeats, repeats, repeats its plea

for cruelty.

July 4th

Gradual bud and bloom and seedfall speeded up

are these mute explosions in slow motion.

From vertical shoots above the sea, the fire

flowers open, shedding their petals.

Black waves, turned more than moonwhite, pink

ice, lightning blue, echo our gasps of admiration

as they crash and hush. Another bush ablaze

snicks straight up. A gap like heartstop between

the last vanished particle and the thuggish boom.

And the thuggish boom repeats in stutters

from sandhill hollows in the shore. We want

more. A twirling sun, or dismembered chrysanthemum

bulleted up, leisurely bursts, in an instant

timestreak is suckswooped back to its core.

And we want more: we want red giant, white dwarf,

black hole, extinct, orgasmic, all in one!