Lynne Jensen Lampe
Three Horses, Muzzles Pointing South
Exit 32 to Neck City, Exit 46 to Humansville.
Wind farms stretch east and west.
Dry cornfields scrape blue sky, pasture
fades against the paint, the sorrel, the gray
mare. Red angus graze rural ruins,
more sunlight in the barn than out.
One summer at Stella’s farm we rode bareback,
six of us. Enough of a gallop my thighs slapped
themselves purple but I stayed put.
Not like at Camp Marydale, that old horse
heading straight for a fat sweetgum,
trunk six feet across. I leaned to my left, let go
of the horn, did a tuck and tumble.
At the last minute the old cuss veered right,
slowed and slunk into the corral. It won’t
take me long to share what I know
about horses: Stay back if you walk behind.
Wear heels so feet stay in the stirrups.
Leave sirens in the city or the horse will
startle. Which is what happened
at the WTO protest—us on a Seattle street,
cop on a horse, shit on the pavement.
The sorrel reared, clawed blue sky.
Landed on a jacket sleeve full of arm.
We purpled. We stayed put.
Lynne Jensen Lampe’s debut collection, Talk Smack to a Hurricane (Ice Floe Press, 2022) concerns mother-daughter relationships, mental illness, and antisemitism. Her poems appear in many journals, including Moist, Figure 1, and Yemassee. A finalist for the 2020 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize and BOTN nominee, she lives with her husband and two dogs in mid-Missouri, where she edits academic research. Visit her at https://lynnejensenlampe.com; on Twitter @LJensenLampe; or IG @lynnejensenlampe.
Return to November 2022 Edition
Exit 32 to Neck City, Exit 46 to Humansville.
Wind farms stretch east and west.
Dry cornfields scrape blue sky, pasture
fades against the paint, the sorrel, the gray
mare. Red angus graze rural ruins,
more sunlight in the barn than out.
One summer at Stella’s farm we rode bareback,
six of us. Enough of a gallop my thighs slapped
themselves purple but I stayed put.
Not like at Camp Marydale, that old horse
heading straight for a fat sweetgum,
trunk six feet across. I leaned to my left, let go
of the horn, did a tuck and tumble.
At the last minute the old cuss veered right,
slowed and slunk into the corral. It won’t
take me long to share what I know
about horses: Stay back if you walk behind.
Wear heels so feet stay in the stirrups.
Leave sirens in the city or the horse will
startle. Which is what happened
at the WTO protest—us on a Seattle street,
cop on a horse, shit on the pavement.
The sorrel reared, clawed blue sky.
Landed on a jacket sleeve full of arm.
We purpled. We stayed put.
Lynne Jensen Lampe’s debut collection, Talk Smack to a Hurricane (Ice Floe Press, 2022) concerns mother-daughter relationships, mental illness, and antisemitism. Her poems appear in many journals, including Moist, Figure 1, and Yemassee. A finalist for the 2020 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize and BOTN nominee, she lives with her husband and two dogs in mid-Missouri, where she edits academic research. Visit her at https://lynnejensenlampe.com; on Twitter @LJensenLampe; or IG @lynnejensenlampe.
Return to November 2022 Edition