When we met, she was so much less dead
than everyone else. She was manic to their
blue TV blues. She was orange juice
in an icebox full of whiskey.
But that bluegrass light
faded like a winter sunset.
She loved those rodeos,
did she hate all my rodeos?
A clown slapped
a dead calf back to life, right in the dirt,
right in front of everyone.
We broke up behind the garage,
and I think of that calf.
I’ve never felt bad about rodeo
animals living with harnesses; harnessing
power into a car engine is no different
from harnessing a horse.
We can do anything, don’t you see?
You could build a fence around a cow,
or you could ride a cow. You and your fences.
Woman. Women. They never made me
as stiff in the pants as a rodeo. A human
could slaughter a cow, sacrifice it to God,
harness it, rope it, bring it back to life.
Right in front of everyone.
I don’t remember much of the era
of horses and carriages except the shit
in the streets. Now that people drive everywhere,
now that everything has been hammered,
processed, and shot through a cathode ray tube,
no one wants to see a miracle anymore.
