Fourteen. Fourteen and felt like a man
plowed the yoked beasts rows and rows
hours on end, endless heat. Then
joining Mother in the garden, chasing crows
from the cornsilk. Glowing dirt ripens and fades
in the dusty heat. She wipes her skirt down,
smiles like the brim of her hat. Hades
was never this hot.
Barnside. Red. Galipoli. His new red roan.
Musty oats, spirited jumper, red saddle
blanket of woven hay and cotton
cavalry rider, stick for a musket, riding to battle
strongest oak fallen to the bottom
of Red River Creek. He jumps, he jumps
like a man from Antietam, and Galipoli snorts
and paws. He falls, head on the stump
and dreams of his horse cavorting
through a blue field ocean.
Goodnight, good night my young man!
It doesn’t hurt none, Ma, whispered.
Feels like dreaming, like breeze through a fan.
Mother sits silently by, slippered
and wrapped in tears. Galipoli, he’s stabled
in the barn. Rest, my beautiful son.
He slips into sleep, arms, legs, unable
to pull himself out. Fourteen he slept.
Fourteen he felt like a man.