The Feral Muse (6)

By: Matthew Battles
June 15, 2011

She unlooped the halter from the high strength of the neck
And the arch of the storm-cloud mane hung with live darkness. He stood: she crushed her breasts
On the hard shoulder, an arm over the withers, the other under the mass of his throat, and murmuring
Like a mountain dove, “If I could bear you.” No way, no help, a gulf in nature. She murmured, “Come,
We will run on the hill. O beautiful, O beautiful,” and led him
To the gate and flung the bars on the ground. He threw his head downward
To snuff at the bars; and while he stood, she catching mane and withers with all sudden contracture
And strength of her lithe body, leaped, clung hard, and was mounted. He had been ridden before; he did not
Fight the weight but ran like a stone falling.

—Robinson Jeffers, “Roan Stallion” (1925)



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