One Poem. One Planet. April 16, 2017
Portrait of the Demi-Goddess as a Child
There came a day when my father, a powerful and wealthy king
(he was a butcher)
Lifted me up to set me high atop the back of a gleaming black mare.
(It was a Huffy banana bike. She was pink.)
She cantered and tossed her head. I smoothed her neck. Her name was Sheila.
(Her name was Sheila.)
My short legs were barely long enough to hold the curve of her ribs
(I couldn’t reach the pedals)
The King declared me confined to an Empire the breadth of a day’s ride in any direction.
(Our driveway and the street in front of the house.)
But Sheila’s mane was silver and her tail flowed like water when she ran.
(silver handlebar tassels)
Along her spine, my velvet cape flared like a blue wing wherever we went
(I tied a dishtowel around my neck)
and wherever we went we galloped. Headlong. Breathless. We ran away to Ghost Mountain
(To the top of Deadman’s Hill)
where highwaymen beat their horses and turned them out on rocky cliffs.
(mean boys always drop their bikes in the dirt)
Braggarts who blocked the way of any traveler, tested themselves against all comers.
(You know, a guy really died on this hill.)
Together, Sheila and I made up a single body of will and speed.
(Bet you’re too chicken.)
Sheila was the best of horses, she’d always done whatever I asked–
(I pointed my front tire downhill)
So, now I asked her for her cherished legs, her roaring heart. I was fearless.
(I was fearless.)
–Arlitia Jones, April 16, 2017