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Straining at the Bit
by Anneke Swinehart author info
The taste of blood is always described as being metallic, sharp.
Blood in my mouth just tastes like home
Like expectations
Like cold hard metal digging into my gums,
knocking against the backs of my molars
Like all the years
of straining at my bit
If I could only move faster, pull harder, keep my head up.
the sudden jerking that accompanied straying off the path
splitting my flesh, filling my mouth with blood and jagged bone
The corrective action rendering me unable to swallow for days.
Not any of it. Even the truth.
Like maybe I liked it.
Like maybe I wanted to go down that road any way and all I had to do was stop
To get where I wanted
Stop pulling the damn cart,
The whole family
the entire load of bullshit and perfection
I’d decided It was My Job to carry.
Maybe I handed mom the whip and dad the map
And got down on all fours cause
Martyrdom seemed the most practical way to get the show on the road.
But maybe I’m not a horse but
Something entirely different something
With wings, or fins
Maybe I’m a sea anemone and everything that rolls over me, feeds me.
Maybe the bullshit is mine
the same way the family
Is mine
The load is mine
And no one’s holding the reigns but me.
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Anneke Swinehart's poetry can be found in Herland anthology #1. She has been featured at the Albuquerque poetry festival and in the pages of Bad Luck Bingo, a zine out of Austin. Anneke has lived in Italy, Michigan, New Mexico, New York, Montana, and is currently nesting in San Francisco: "I'm loving the fog, the ladies, the agapanthas, ocean, mountains, and forests right out my door, and all the chaos."
All material copyright the authors, printed with permission.
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