Was not a one-trick pony.
Was the trick of many ponies.
Was the trick of swimming
The ponies from the island
To the mainland. So as not
To burden the island, said
The saltwater cowboys whose
Trick it was to auction off
The ponies at the pony auctions
To the women clutching their kiss-
Clasp bags of tricks. Was not
A dirt-trick island, but was
The island, was its vow to sugar
The ponies until there was
No cane left to sweeten them.
A simple trick, to die like
An island, parched, fenced in
By water, acre graveyard of
Pebbles and hooves. Oh, was
I ever a ponyless girl
On the bone-shrill island,
Was I ever a girl, was I,
Asked the girl who was as
Many tricks as there were
Men, as many men as it took
To no longer be a girl. Trick was
To refuse the pony’s love, to love
Instead the glue. Was I yours,
The ponies asked the girl, salt caking
Their horse-long faces. Was
A girl, answered the girl. Was
What I had to be. Was the
Auction, the swam-sick
Channel. Was the grief of salt
Split open by water, of
Velvet balding under a
Bridle. Was the island of
Burden that is the girl’s, burden
Of the saddle beneath the
Burden of men. Was
The night’s tinfoil raft, its
Splintered, old-dog light.
Was mine, was enough.
