We left the other campers,
the accoustic jam session on the grass,
the tents in the yard, the cases of beer in green cans
bought in Germany to save kroner.
The blur of glottal stopped, muffled
Teutonic tones that would become my second language.
We headed along a path, fingers melting
together in august.
Affectionate and impractical physical contact
without the objective of keeping warm.
We stopped at the horses.
As I reached down to touch the string fence I asked,
“How do these little strings keep them in”?
She tried to answer the boy who grew up near
strip malls, McDonald’s, over-crowded developmental neighborhoods.
The kid whose mother got her nails done every week.
The one who never spent a day in the country
so close up, whose closest encounter with a horse
was near Central Park, next to one of
New Yor’s finest – the NYPD equestrian uniform,
one of the Queen’s guard.
I heard her say,
My fingers made contact.
We both felt the jolt.
Our chemistry became a compund of
pain. Shock. energy.
We both knew she would feel everything
that I would touch.
We survived the current.