At the Rainbow Cattle Company
By Bruce Snider
No matter who leads tonight, who follows,
I feel his stare as we work the floor.
He swaggers from heel to toe.
Is it his smile?
Or his eyes I can’t ignore?
Even the lights wink, catching the pearled
buttons on his black paisley shirt.
The whole room tonight turns
on his crocodile boots, his porn mustache—
Mr. Crew Cut, Mr. High Firm Ass.
The mirrors on the wall show us
what we are and where we’ve been,
Shania singing: the woman in me needs the man
in you. What I give
is what he takes—
I move us hard until the music breaks.
_____
He moves us hard until the music breaks.
I turn and almost trip. I fall behind.
He grips my hand,
taking me slow
through the Oak Ridge Boys, Patsy Cline.
The tempo shifts from sleep to wake.
I pull away. He stops. He never speaks
but stares me down. Hand on my hip,
he turns left, then right.
I’m the whip
he snaps. I’m the horse he rides.
He’s what I want and what I fear—
in his arms, then not. My shadow glides
around me like a skirt.
In the mirrors
we turn, step, spin. He won’t let go.
How do you flirt—quick-quick, slow-slow?
_____
I’m learning to flirt—quick-quick, slow-slow—
my blood a mix of cheap flat beer.
He smells of wilderness, hot road tar,
Crew pomade. Half horse plough,
half attitude, is he a tease?
I don’t know
his name, where he’s from, can’t hear what
he whispers in my ear.
I’ve no excuse.
His horseshoe buckle shines beyond a doubt.
What’s faith if not what I refuse
to know? Will he be a priest tomorrow,
a florist, a judge? He’s a man now
on a mission with a gun. In the mirrors
we’re here again
with everywhere to go
no matter who leads tonight, who follows.
