by Laura Hilkemann

If one has sat in a saddle across stretches
Of prairie void of one’s own species,
Perhaps original sin will not seem a peculiar
Conversation subject with an equine companion
Whose alert, pointed ears pivot politely towards
The various sounds formed by Eve’s offspring.

An apology for the tempting foxtail grass
Ensues after preventing the naive palomino
From snatching a deceptive bite
Of sharp spikelets and awns that burrow
Into tender tongues and persuade
Blood to escape from the perforations.
 
For it was my primogenitors whose 
Rebellious taste of tree-fruit resulted
In this grassland’s infection of malignant flora 
Such as the death camas and purple thistle
That must be uprooted from your pasture
And the sandburs tangling your white tail.

But hope is justified, my rapt mount!
Creation will be healed and restored
When a Rider wearing many crowns 
Returns on a glorious, royal white horse—
A King who well knows blood loss
By the twisted barbs of a curse-plant.

Laura Hilkemann is a poet in rural Nebraska who loves living on the prairie with her family and animal menagerie. She has a PhD in psychology and has had poems published in Nebraska Life and Gilded Weathervane.