tossing manes / circle pits

as a child
before hopping on the merry-go-round
i’d survey each of the painted ponies spinning
looking to choose the steed that most struck my fancy – 

not too plain & not too pink 

a little bit of lightning in its eyes,
a few hot coals stirring under its hooves.

i’d swing up into the saddle
the music would burst
& all at once we were sent: 

motionless & spinning.

//

at the age of 23
i dragged myself coughing up north to a stage set for a skinny jean teen
prophesying her vision of swinging to the loudest versions of chasing-defining
struck by the fancy of “there could be nothing after this” –

came to the show with a boy in love with me or my denim vest / patched & distressed

­          he knows.

          i won’t be corralled in a tower stance
­          ­‌shielded from the stampede of fists and humeri
­          hurricane of sweat spilled beer & biochemicals

­          i’ll dive

like forked lightning into that little thunderstorm,
a few hot coals stirring under my converse hooves.

i chomp at the bit before i spit it out
& when the music bursts
all at once we are sent:


(he lets me go)

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