Razor blades contemplated our thin wrists
as we slept, unawares. At daybreak, we biked
to the stable, hid from the sunlight in the barn’s
darkest corners, the scent of shavings, hay
and saddle soap filling our noses. Come late
afternoon, we’d kick off our shit-encrusted boots,
nod to the older grooms. Let them curry us in
the tack room among the bridles and bits. Kissed
their eager lips and showed them how to ride,
how to savor the burning in their thighs as we
offered up our manes to their boyish, cantering minds.
How gently we took hold of their fingers fumbling
at our buttons and ties, then looked into their eyes
and eased those skittish riders into submission.
Margaret Malochleb is a poet, writer and editor based in Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, Rust & Moth, The Shore and Tupelo Quarterly, among other journals.