Hank
EMRY TRANTHAM


God I want to rest my  
cheek on the ribcage  
barrel of Hank,  

liver-chestnut quarter  
horse who loped me  
‘round the ring.  

Put palm to velvet  
muzzle, donut  
nostrils blowing hot  

grass air, snail trail  
of mucus and sweat  
dropping down to dust.  

Curry dried mud  
from his cowlick  
flank and hip,  

listen to growing  
swallows squeak  
from a daubed nest.  

I could better bear  
the weight of his  
hind legs now,  

lever stones from  
the crevices  
of his hooves.  

I could better hold  
the reins now;  
I could keep my grip.













EMRY TRANTHAM is a native of Western North Carolina, where she is currently raising three daughters and teaching English to high school students. 



THE ADIRONDACK REVIEW
COPYRIGHT © 2000–2018
ISSN: 1533 2063
SUMMER 2018