NOT THE WORLD I WAS BORN INTO
It’s not my fault the horse is so strong.
Contoured hindquarters, athletic neck
quivering, and cannot be tamed.
The horse trots, as it will, to the forest
between trees, and stomps moss underfoot.
Unbridled, I can only wrap a grasp around
its wild mane as it endangers me
or damages the forest floor
and indifferent.
It canters amidst limbs
when my neck catches in a crook
like Absalom hanging
caught up in Y
while my father calls my name
again from heaven
and the horse strengthens
to a gallop
finds an edge to the forest
carries on to the prairie
and free
Laura King holds a Master of Divinity degree from Union Theological Seminary in New York City and is in the MFA program for Creative Writing at Rainier Writing Workshop in Tacoma, Washington. She lives in Sacramento, California, where she is a pecan farmer and a hospital chaplain.