Llanera

I've recently taken to calling myself a llanera (girl of the llano). Growing up I knew I lived on the llano estacado. I knew I lived on the Staked Plains and I knew Coronado on his infamous and ultimately empty expedition in search of gold had come across the western plains of Texas and the eastern plains of New Mexico. They drove wooden stakes into these vast stretches of llano, otherwise they would be lost -- lost like Cabeza de Baca perhaps. I knew only the llano. I knew tornadoes in spring and ice and wind in winter. I knew to watch for rattlesnakes and porcupines.  I knew the smell of saddle soap and rich oats for the horses. I watched my dad fit horses for their shoes and I saw him fall and fall and fall every time we got a new horse -- a new, dangerous horse to break. I hung back, pretended not to be scared when the clouds churned or coyotes howled. I learned to be quiet and terrified. My dad? Well, he loved every single terrifying inch of the llano.

Breaking a Horse

                                    for Dad

Already sold,

you have no choice

but to hold;

and although fit with iron and leather,

he will not break.

Perhaps this is your first

mistake.

Hands knotted into an impossible shape

conceal their frailty

with tape.

Still, I am unable

to escape.

Caught in your grip

a calf in barbed-wire, to stand

is my only desire.

A rattlesnake coiled on a shimmering

rock

taking stock.

To attack or not?

The wound is not deep,

the poison is all we reap.

Quiet . . .

our secrets are back to sleep.