Maatstaf. Jaargang 33

[p. 63]

Raphael Rudnik
From ‘On the train’.
(A Book-length Poem-in-Progress)

Quaker had a subtle sense of

All the shifts of shame and guilt. The Cowboy looked a-
Blaze with pleasure, grinned and spat, but moments later
Sucked his teeth in a sensual mockery of
Misery when Quaker'd asked-for the story a-
Gain of how he'd lost his companion-horse on
The rolling flinty plains of Texas...:

‘There were a...

Helluva lotta things they didn't tell us, when
We signed-on. Not just breakin’ horses, chasin' cows,
An' getting drug and throwed- You cook it slow, you cook
it good... but, I'm a crazy ol' bastard, so - just
Got holda them nuts good, 'n whacked em off!

(We split.)

‘We rode so long, I drove all day, too far to find
Anyone to say “Pretty country, ain't it?” to...
So eyes dartin’ back to the box now'n then, said it
To her standin' silken tied behind through the glass...
My sweet almond, a raisin an' a new penny...
Found first running with mestenos, those rough,
Sudden and irregular ‘original ones’
Belonging to no one. But she belonged to me.
A squatty barrel-built dun.

- Saddling them they humped

Pitching all over the pen. But, she didn't do
Anything but stand as if she'd been saddled-up
Every day of the year waiting for me. Lacked much
In size, grace and finish. But had the nerve, to back
It all up.

-Let me in... the small grey trailer. Shot

A finger-in between bridle bands. Rubbed gently.
A few scars of straw were smiling on the floor.

Not

Like that first time, before. Standing on a box.

[p. 64]

 

-Wakes you at night and you area horse, you must have

 

Your dinner!

 

But she... wanted-to, whirled languidly.

 

Rubbed her sweating poll against my arm.

 

Went

 

Swaggering-in into her nigger-pink skin.

 

Of

 

Its own ghostly mixture a purple jelly split,

 

Kisses out.

 

 

 

Just wallowed a few times.

 

 

 

Dream and die,

 

 

 

The dead live there!... hope to God to tell you!

 

 

 

Aw,

 

You can't just know why The Devil wins everything,

 

Is everything on the way to God's fire, can you?

 

Ol' son-bitch - you've got me all worked-up, down! But my

 

Daddy always told me it's not the height a

 

Person reaches, but the depth from which he comes.

 

So:

 

 

 

Abruptly bearin' southward to where the open-

 

Faced land's only diversion is hills, bare

 

Pyramid-shapes a-rottin' an' a-rootin' in

 

The sky, when

 

 

 

wok!

 

(I want to live always, I

 

Never want to die. Die, die!)

 

Calm as a pond in

 

A pasture always, but a screw-worm of fear's stuck

 

In her eye now. Mortal scared.

 

-G-gah, kraa!

 

(Damned

 

If I didn't tell her to jump in our language:

 

Horse-wah.)

 

Jumble of lines, an' the box breakin' open,

 

Jacknifed into me stompin' on my dead-man's brake -

 

Till the hitch-bar snapped.

[p. 65]

 

The foal inside her

 

Becoming birth's elegy.

 

 

 

To go with fieldmice

 

Jackrabbits quail-eggs down the wolves' rouged mouths.

 

-‘At's it:

 

She's got the right idea. Serious sleepin’...

 

I

 

Only wish thed.o.i.' (The Department of

 

The Interior.) ‘...'d put the poison right. Spring-

 

Activated gas at the height of their faces.

 

Before they got her.

 

Aw.

 

Someone else has touched and

 

Entered you.

 

No Silence Do-Good, either.

 

Aw-haw,

 

San Antone - -’