Benjamin A. Strok
Benjamin A. Strok
You Saw A Barbed Wire Fencepost

You could see her hoofing at a sky she could not
invigorate. Posing helpless and insane,
like the eyes of a fawn, I watched. She squirmed,
on morning kissed barbed-wire, she could not jump.

Her body was a cast, drenched in the conclusion.
Stationed at a fencepost,
propped up like a nightcrawler,
she wagged only from subtleties—
the changes in tension.

When a bird landed she nodded her head,
because he was heavy.
A sour fleshed fawn, prompted
by perched crows, she swayed on
cue without her future.

She was a pin-up. Stuck between,
a blue, glass forest, and this
shallow tobacco valley.
Italicized across several miscalculations
in her route to the fields, she was sustenance
splayed, over the tops of shining barbed kisses.