STALLION

An auburn mane
erupts over a firm neck:
he stands ready.

She faces his subservient brown eyes,
and with a palm over his cozy muzzle,
declares, “What a good horse you are!”

His ears promptly turn up 180°,
vocalizing delight with
an equine nicker.

Enraptured, she slips
a toe into the stirrup, grasping
the saddle’s horn over the swell.

Then lifts her other leg around
his lustrous loins, and sits snugly
on a well-worn saddle.

In advance of the cathartic ride,
she leans forward and pats his neck,
prodding him to proceed.

One step at a time—first,
a controlled three-beat canter,
three hoofbeats per stride.

She squeezes his ribcage with her thighs,
to hasten the pace, and he responds
with a four-beat gallop.

The reigns of his bridle
are held around each ring finger
of her commanding hands.

She now controls his sinewy hips,
focusing on an experience
only he can provide her.

He takes a giant inhale which widens her legs,
aware of how high she likes the lift
and land back down.

Invigorated, he presses ahead,
like a dutiful lead dog in a sled race,
to please the Gods.

Or a locomotive steam engine,
fed with coal into the fiery hole of its cab–
striving for full throttle.

As their organic rhythm intensified,
she crouches over hot coals,
adding tinder to a ravenous fire.

An aroused atmosphere reacts,
by discharging lightening, as the sod
beneath his hooves quiver.

Their union, towards
transcendence, is rewarded
with a primordial calm.

The blues, purples, and lavender
of the pasture are now restored.
The Gods are indeed pleased.

This is an unspoken communion
between equestrian
and her stallion.

That night he stood motionless in his stable–
as a consecrated postulant in a monastic order,
drenched by the glow of a clear full-blown moon.

Warm and tender like the thigh of a goddess,
surrounded by glimmering stars, consenting to
how the world’s peace can be temporarily restored.

— © Abraham Menashe