We went horseback riding at the tennis resort, at least
a few of us.
And my first experience was two summers ago
at a dude ranch, of all things.
And the first day was terrible, because we
got on the wrong ride.
You know that story.
And we went on with these people who knew how to ride horses,
and they were just running all over the place.
And I was in the back just hanging on.
And my wife was right next to the leader,
way up to the front, and I couldn't get over it.
And so finally, about 20 minutes later, really 20 minutes,
I caught up to her.
And she was in a state of shock.
The horse had run away with her.
And she had her arm slashed open,
and her hands were bleeding, and her eyes were in that daze.
And it was really pretty terrible.
And when I got her back she had terrible bruises,
so purple they were black.
But it turned out, it was a wonderful vacation.
She rested that day and very courageously got back
on the horse and the next day with gloves and socks wrapped
around her thighs.
See, this is not supposed to--
I have this trouble this whole week trying not to be funny.
So anyhow, I wrote a serious poem about this
called, "Learning to Ride."
"Learning to Ride-- my wife hung on to the runaway horse
clutching the reins until her hands
bled, her feet trying to grip the stirrups through her shoes.
On the fresh sheet, on the bed in the cabin we had rented,
I spread her legs to inspect the black and purple bruises
on the insides of her thighs.
That night, her blistered hands were so
tender she could not touch me as I
tried to guide my penis without touching her legs.
She was still frightened.
I didn't know whether the moans meant pleasure or pain.
And when she saw my eyes crazed by both power and desire,
she laid there, hands at her sides,
realizing the true distances between us.
I was afraid our vacation was over.
I was afraid a child conceived that night would bear
the birthmark of her bruises.
But the next day, she was up on the horse, kicking it sides,
and pulling back on the reins.
And the month later, she bled, wiping her wet thighs
as if erasing a bruise.
Her hands so calloused, something wild in me
knelt and waited."