My sister rides a one-eyed horse.
This is no allegory for the degradation
of American romanticism. This is
a humble beast left incomplete
by tree branch and infection.
If you stare into that place where
there ought to be something, you will
not see the ghost riders of the plains or hear
Johnny Cash croon “Desperado.” More likely:
you will recall Californians penning that tune.
Hit makers with buttery voices and expensive guitars.
You will see the cavity is dark, but not so dark
you can’t determine where its wrinkled spiral
terminates in a flat scar. This is no reverse eclipse
or beast laden with prophecy’s burden called
Left Eye or Blackjack, alluding to his impairment.
This horse is called Smoky and on occasion:
“Adarkandcoldnovember.” This is a horse
who has one eye and trouble with turns.
I won’t even say I am like this horse, yoked by memory
and familial expectation. Tradition
does not bear down on me like an unwelcome rider,
like my sister on the one-eyed horse.
Nor does tradition carry me as the one-eyed horse
carries my sister. The horse who wants only to graze
in his bisected world. Who knows half of everything
is invisible. The one-eyed horse hurdles
the blue tarp’s liverpool, the parallel oxers.
He parts the brush of the bullfinch. Like you and me
he follows a bridle, the eyes of another. He trusts
in a solid landing. This is his deficiency.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 5.
John Dudek’s work has appeared in The Southern Review, Cimarron Review, Grist, The Journal, Passages North, and elsewhere. He teaches writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
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