The Wooden Horse
Wow
Lake
the wooden horse was never a proper metaphor for life
there are no masses waiting to destroy you
they are not crouched and waiting in that wooden belly
there's nothing but a trail of baby teeth through the foothills
I.
nothing is wow anymore
just painted white
wood panels
light and lime stone
a race we didn't finish
asleep in the truck bed
I'll spit ribbons from my mouth
II.
the tv signals & dogs
to find myself & the light
you an example
hands on letter
or telephone
name on paper
I open my mouth
like the drawbar organ--
III.
or a sad song
IV.
I.
The story begins when you place yourself in space
and time. You are like sand against the door.
Possibly an unopened box of matches.
II.
Feeling chaotic from all this time on video,
we drape petals over the mooring.
A silly feeling, like how lemons work.
III.
Then I open my head. I remove the lantern
from within its sad walls. I plant a bomb behind
my teeth. We're always the last ones in from the rain.
Nicholas Bon lives in Georgia, where he edits Epigraph Magazine. You can find his poems in West Wind Review, Otoliths, Zoomoozophone Review, and elsewhere. Visit him online at www.nicholasbon.com.
