I stumble twice on my way home
From the unplanned horseback adventure.
Cary and I are late to supper, and the sun
Slips down around the rows of pine trees,
grasping at the sky,
as if to catch the sands pouring from an hourglass.
Cary wipes his nose on a grimy hand
And tells me that he’s going to relax.
He rests on a tree stump that we use to cut firewood
When we listen to my Granddaddy’s ham radio.
I move ahead, thinking of how I’d
Tell my Granddaddy that we broke
Scarlett’s leg, and now carry with us
his heart, his eyes, and his judgement.
Cary huffs once behind me, and my ears prickle
To the sound of iron and steel sliding over one another.
The retort of gunfire blasts across the sky. He is practicing,
Wrists sore from the blowback of the snub-nosed revolver.
The forest is alive with squawks and bellows as animals
Dance away from the music of his firearm.
I shoulder my pack, heavy with memories.
We harvested from the still waters that our horses drank.
Cary is right to delay his journey home.
2
Cedar trees spew pollen onto the front of the Ford,
And seek to undo all the progress I’ve made
Washing the windshield for the past ten minutes.
My tiny hands scrabble at the cracked glass,
Soap wringing the water across them.
I am home, and the day is arriving.
Grandaddy walks by and says to get inside
And clean up.
We’re going to church today.
I dress myself in a blue oxford and khakis.
I don’t know how to tie a tie, so my Grandmama does it for me.
She smells like moth balls and old people perfume, but she
Sneaks a candy in my hands after she’s done
And I pretend we both like Toffee.
The pastor grabs my shoulder and applies too much pressure.
He labors astride a bible filled with notes and highlighters
To remind himself how to be the man that can ignore
The son he lost before I was born.
I smile at him as he ruffles my hair,
And begin the performance,
Where the world focuses on Him in the pulpit, in our sanctuary
That could use a little less dialogue and a lot
More air conditioning.
Grandaddy tore my backside off for losing his horse.
I sit awkwardly, trying not to crack the scab that traces
Down my right butt cheek.
Cary is home. He got to leave early.
When the sermon is done, we all stand.
My mouth is filled with spit and grape juice.
They pretend it’s wine so they can pretend its blood.
Dad is waiting outside with the Ranger that I washed
This Sunday morning. He doesn’t go into the building.
Grandaddy nods at him then steers me to the bed.
I lay down so the police officers won’t see me in the back of the truck.
3
I pull okra from my teeth, grasping
Onto the gums like burrs.
Grandaddy is proud of this year’s harvest
And thinks if it sells well
We won’t have to cut lumber.
I drag my teeth across the now bleeding sore.
The okra tastes like sawdust and guilt
But I chew it up and swallow it
Because its what my Mother
Would do.
4
Cary and I don’t ride anymore.
Grandaddy passed and Grandmama
Gave up the property in Washington,
So now we push pencils
And dream of saddle sores.
Scarlett is a memory fading
And exists only in the meandering
Canals of my mind,
I ask Cary if he thinks about Topher, his horse,
As much as I do Scarlett.
Grandaddy gave both of us a friend, after all.
But Cary doesn’t answer.
Kentucky is a long way from Washington.
5
Grandaddy is furious with Cary.
He drags him outside and takes his gun back
And points his bleached finger back in his face
And asks why the horse is dead.
I didn’t tell him it was my fault.
That I rode too hard in the trees
And didn’t give the horses or my brother
Room to jump over that dead tree
That fell on the ruins of the slave house
two years back.
They all fell, and both horses lashed
Against one another in mortal fear
And Scarlett broke leg scratching in the mud,
And Cary panicked and said we had to put him down.
So he turned me around to face the trees
And then two quick clicks were all
That took my best friend from me.
Scarlett was black and fast and liked
To lick sugar cubes out of my little hand.
But he couldn’t lick sugar cubes when
A bullet was lodged in his right eye socket.
Cary missed and had to fire again.
We didn’t tell Grandaddy that part, either.
Cary comes in at supper time and washes his hands,
still covered with gore.
Grandaddy was happy we did the right thing and brought
Organs home.
He believes in the old stories,
Where men who consumed the hearts
Of their horses to gain their strength.
I think of Scarlett’s flesh squishing between my teeth,
Softer than okra,
And vomit against the garden fence
And go inside to shower and not eat supper.
6
Summer is coming. I ride Scarlett down his favorite trails
And bounce in rhythm to the shape of the forest.
Rows of sugarcane whip past just outside the boughs
And I reach a hand out to slow Scarlett down.
I daydream of my brother behind me, and pretend
To ignore the pistol tucked in the back of his jeans.
We both breathe heavily, and my legs are sore.
I fall out of the saddle and grab a cane.
It tastes like sweet tea and bamboo shoots,
And I know peace.
Summer is coming. I ride Scarlett down his favorite trails.