The Salt Horse

The Salt Horse

Her body brushes the forest's bark like a clock made of dew,
her skin trembles thin, a flag of water beaten by the wind,
through the wood's fingers pass warm trade winds like a breath,
the trees' hands cool themselves in her as in a hidden spring,
beyond so much touching sleeps a horse as vast as the horizon,
his flesh is violet like a jellyfish dreamed in the sea's sleep.

From his mane living tentacles are born, serpents of salt and light,
they gather the bodies around and drink them like wells,
the chests break free alone, running bare like stray dogs,
they carry on their skin bruised imprints, old kisses of fire,
the fields bare their great teeth and bite into memories,
and the marks left behind burn like mouths that can't be filled.

Those immense mouths swallow the vines fleeing in fear,
cut into pieces, the vines rise up straight like candles,
at their tips small suckers grow, blind eyes searching the sky,
everything trembles in an ancient rhythm, a boundless dance,
I watch you from the horse's shadow, from his violet flesh,
not knowing if I'm dreaming, or being born from his salt-womb.

We are only shape and longing, living clay under a mercury moon,
blood runs through the trunks like a liquid smoke, white and heavy,
your hands are roots, your mouth a crystal made of dew,
inside you the trade winds burn as in a templeless temple,
and the erotic horse dreams he might become a forest,
and the forest, in turn, dreams it wears a mane of jade.

The bare chests remain, knocking at the gates of evening,
the bruised imprints remain, writing their story across the fields,
the horse remains, silent, his flesh a jellyfish gone dark,
and we remain, longing and ash, inside the body that forgets us,
somewhere on the horizon a new vine climbs again toward the light,
and at its tip grows a sucker-flower, red, mystic, alive.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

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