Is Romance a One-Trick Pony
Is romance a one-trick pony, run-through
with a brass pole and forever
pinned to the rotating floor of a one-song
carousel? Okay, okay, the song
may change, but the pony won’t. Complete
with a seat belt, as if that strap could
help at all. Help at all,
what could? Every mother I know is divorced.
Every mother I know is saying I told
you so. The carousel horses have everything
needed for romance—blankets under
polished saddles, red tassels worthy
of a honeymoon suite. Hooves rimmed
in gold, manes all prettier than yours.
Some even carry swords, as all romance
stems from conquest and its knights,
when life was shorter and blades
duller than a modern kitchen knife.
All the pretty horses, I used to think
as a girl. When I climbed up onto the moving stage
I was shocked by their expressions—
heads reared back, eyes open wide
like they were trying to find a way
out. Their teeth, bared, stacked tight
as overcrowded headstones, jaws splayed,
and the gold bits in their mouths, forcing them
open and onward.
The flower garlands, painted on,
don’t lose a petal as the brass poles carry them
up and forward, toward nothing
in particular, as they are show ponies
meant for riding—circle bound, destined to continue
moving without moving.
with a brass pole and forever
pinned to the rotating floor of a one-song
carousel? Okay, okay, the song
may change, but the pony won’t. Complete
with a seat belt, as if that strap could
help at all. Help at all,
what could? Every mother I know is divorced.
Every mother I know is saying I told
you so. The carousel horses have everything
needed for romance—blankets under
polished saddles, red tassels worthy
of a honeymoon suite. Hooves rimmed
in gold, manes all prettier than yours.
Some even carry swords, as all romance
stems from conquest and its knights,
when life was shorter and blades
duller than a modern kitchen knife.
All the pretty horses, I used to think
as a girl. When I climbed up onto the moving stage
I was shocked by their expressions—
heads reared back, eyes open wide
like they were trying to find a way
out. Their teeth, bared, stacked tight
as overcrowded headstones, jaws splayed,
and the gold bits in their mouths, forcing them
open and onward.
The flower garlands, painted on,
don’t lose a petal as the brass poles carry them
up and forward, toward nothing
in particular, as they are show ponies
meant for riding—circle bound, destined to continue
moving without moving.
Jessica Lee is an Assistant Poetry Editor for Narrative Magazine. Her poems have been published in BOAAT, Fugue, Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week, Passages North, Phoebe, Prairie Schooner, THRUSH, Zone 3, and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest. Find her online at readjessicalee.com.