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

His flowing auburn mane erupts
over an engorged neck;
he stands ready.

She slips a toe of a carefully polished
black boot into the stirrup,
and grasps the saddle’s horn over the swell.

Then hoists her right leg around
his lustrous loins, and sits snugly
on the well-worn saddle.

In advance of the cathartic ride,
she leans forward, 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, and he responds
with a four-beat gallop.

The reign of his leather bridle
is wound around
her ring finger.

She now has control over sinewy hips,
and focuses on an experience
only he can provide.

He takes a giant inhale to widen her legs,
aware of how high
she relishes the up-bounce.

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 intensifies,
she crouches over the hot coals,
stoking tinder of a ravenous fire.

The aroused atmosphere discharges
lightening, and the terrain beneath
his solid hooves start to quiver.

Their effort toward transcendence,
fed the hunger of a ravenous universe,
and rewarded with primordial calm.

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

This is an unspoken communion
between a fevered equestrian
and her faithful, savage stallion.

That night he stood motionless,
meditating in a tack room,
where bridles, braces,

Saddles and whips are stored,
like a consecrated postulant
in a monastery.

Under the watchful eye of a moon–
warm like the thigh of
a pink-fleshed Goddess.

That consented
to how the world’s peace
can be restored.

— © Abraham Menashe