It was a vision populated by bamboo bars
And eucalyptus trees. Her hands were
Rough, a complete surprise. But maybe
That’s because I’m sexist. Or sexless.
Australia is a land full of mixed up animals.
It seems like every other one has a pouch,
A place to keep the little ones safe from
Danger. It’s perfect for a Freudian phalanx.
Just crawl back in buddy, a fetal failure.
Don’t worry, it’s safe and wet and warm.
No one will ever see you, mama’s fur
Blanketing the stares. Ends and beginnings.
Anyway, her hands were rough. And I
Liked it. It made me want to box a
Kangaroo. Is that something that people
Do? Hemingway, I think, would have.
Although, I can’t help but think that most
Of what he says is more bullshit than
Bullfighting. Besides, the stilted sentences
Lose the lilt. It’s not about the short or long.
I think she rode horses, leather reins and no
Gloves. Sometimes she smelled like a horse,
Especially her pants between the thighs. It was
Good. Horses and people belong together.
There are ancient traditions of horse mysticism.
Or at least I’m given to believe that by some.
I haven’t checked into it myself. Don’t have
The time. I’m willing to be enlightened.
I will say that I love horses and wish I could
Ride them all the time. I’m not much for cars,
Whether the right or left side of the road. I like
Fields and mountain pathways; the plodding clop.
She belongs with me. Maybe that’s the most
Mystical of all traditions. I can’t shake it either
Way. I guess it doesn’t matter. But I’ll always
Remember the horses, the hands; the Hemingway—
And Australia, the inescapable womb, the pleasant
Prison. It’s an island and maybe a fever dream.
Every side an ocean or a sea. I’m brought here and away;
I don’t enter or leave by my own power or design.
I never learned to sail beyond following orders.