Muscle Hungry
Sara Tracey

Tonight, I learned every inch
of an old white gelding,
the rough patch between his eyes,
the cleft before his tailbone,
hock, cannon, fetlock,
the soft belly at my heels.

I never knew a lover this well,
but two hours in this saddle
and he and I move like one.

He follows each twist
in my torso, stops at a clench
of my thighs. My hands
for nothing more than finesse.
I speak only when my body fails me.

Tonight, I will go to bed
bone tired and muscle hungry,
my arms still quivering
from the weight of his hooves.

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