Dreamed 1988/10/8, poem 1989; drawing 14 x 17", erasable crayon; by Chris Wayan.

I lean on the wind, at the pitted brink-- The rock harsh as a loofah: good traction. I lean. Left, right, out, beyond abyss Faint far fluted white: peaks promise Clear snowmelt all summer; and between, Great-flung golden knees of wilderness, and shins, dry-grassed, stark as this rough kneecap where I stand.	Up from abyss, brutal as bears, a gale slaps back my ears. Narrow-eyed against the pain, I scan the juicy valley, sleek grass-green, Inlaid with skysilver lightning snakes Curled as my wind-wrung mane. Aromas hitch on the updraft--Anne's lace, Shooting star, tule stems sweet as cubes From a traitorous human hand.
Pheromones tickle. Soft whuffs; they are below. Manes banner the grass with black, gold, roan, And I in heat, static crawling up my thighs My skin shiver and my tail rise At the rub and lick of... only the teasing wind. Join the herd? Descend? Down on that warm green A stallion's great hooves boom... Stimulate my heart's hot drum-- Down! Among the lithe Who'll slide along my skin And stoke this secret tingling till I writhe! And bell for joy till echoes fill the green, As sweet sheet-lightnings bolt my being.	Their necks leap brave as waterfalls. Beneath wild tails, what I need throbs. And yet... what if they're tame? I see no men, my cunt's aflame, The grass along my upland's spare, Wind vast, and I Silhouette alone upon this sky... But this wild mare Will not be owned again. If I dare cliffs, descend, to join-- And owners come, I swear: Break free, or die. That much I, a night mare, know: Live free; live free or die.