Girls and Horses
My father’s stone agenda
did not include horses for girls,
or playing pool, or going shirtless
at the age of four, even though
my brothers could. I somehow knew
writing could get me that horse.
A redwood fence contained my world,
so in my backyard I wrote a letter.
Dug a hole with my mother’s
silver serving spoon,
bent to the chore in a crinkled cotton dress,
with my knees in dirt and sun on my neck.
I couldn’t spell,
but felt certain my hieroglyphs
would be deciphered.
Words folded into white paper.
I thought, "when people are buried
they shoot right up to God like bottle-rockets,"
so I planted my letter, shaped a mound,
and placed a handful of dandelions on top.
Photo Credit, Stewart Ferebee