His Mane Is Not Frozen
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The stallion has a stab wound in his eye.
The tempered steel is lodged there still with blood.
The bride that was now has a woman’s sty
Beside black iris. Groom is not her stud
Now. He stampedes around his snorting field
Among the twitching skin on mares. The slim
Pretend a lack of interest. Then they yield.
His semen fills them to their womby brim.
A wedding is a wedding. Holy Church
Insists it is her sacrament, but then
The man goes roaming. Others feel his lurch
Inside them. Lurching is the way of men.
The bride concerns herself not with her groom
Now. She accepts the Holy Church’s doom.
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