Barbara Campbell

Last Night I Made Love with a Horse

His face the face
of a long-ago crush,
so sweet
I could’ve wept.
We rode fast,
I sitting sure and fit.
Where we went
I couldn’t tell
but we talked
as if we knew
what the other
thought, no matter
he was a horse
and I his rider.
Once I would’ve feared
the Freudian subtext.
Now I’m content
with tenderness,
the coarse touch
of his forelock.