By Allen C. Jones
Not long before the teacher says
that no one cares and slaughters
the animals, and families scatter
and lawsuits are all that’s left,
the Red Truck takes its last ride.
Ramsey the new ram throws
his hooves up on the toolbox,
flares his nostrils above the cab.
Trees are bare, the hills dead,
and yet Ramsey smells musk
and lanolin on the autumn wind.
Saturdays we help our father,
fixing fences, clipping hooves,
castrating, and taking Ramsey
up to his lady sheep. We dub it
the Red Sex Wagon and laugh
because now we are men, laugh
because no one has betrayed us,
sing of Brennan the highwayman,
never afraid. Up from the lowlands
the Red Sex Wagon carries Ramsey,
rebirth on four legs, nostrils flared,
riding untied in the bed, knowing
nothing except wind and desire,
banging one dark hoof impatiently
against the slowness of this world.
Allen C. Jones has an MFA in poetry, a PhD in digital textuality, and he teaches in Norway. His work appears in Fiction Southeast, Whale Road Review, Pilgrimage, Third Wednesday, Deus Loci, The Bitter Oleander, The Southern Anthology, Two Hawks, AJN, Korea Lit, and Maudlin House. More info:allencjones.com.