" Revelation "
Out of my mouth the four horses
of the Apocalypse ride
past your shirt folded neatly on a bed.
Red, orange, blues, they trot
while I stare out a window.
Their breath; a mix of rye and meadow,
warm steam which fogs a bathroom mirror
causes their wings to press
damp, wet on the outside of my leg.
And they are not what I imagined,
these doomsday agents of Revelation
but rather, the soft form of women
naked in body; part horse, part skin.
Tongues that speak to me
as tracks are made in the white flour
across a counter, the kitchen floor.
I sweep up their refuse,
smell their life on the tips of my fingers,
inhale scent. All the while
trying to close this doorway into myself.
The one made by your hands,
the wood of your words.
Caverns which fall deep. Wide
enough for four dark riders
to journey through.
© 2002 Treezaa (T. E. Ballard)
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