I broke my New Year’s Day leg

on a Kansas riverbank.

When a snail slimed to my safety, 

she braced my limb 

into a fusion of movement 

up up through the mud

to Jack & Dick’s Pawn Shop

where I bartered my splintered femur 

for an animal switch

glued onto the fleshy end-trails

of my brain. With one foot

sinking into a wet cement clasp,

I jolted out of my Wichita self 

into a thoroughbred-constructed 

body I call Charlie. 

Out in the prairie of wayward grandfathers, 

Charlie sprouted a black moon tail 

and Delta brown fur.

Once his haunch came into full bloom, 

a pound of happiness 

plopped onto his back.

Yet some cornstalk family

led by the patriarchy of fucken Fred

dead-bolted their front door 

after Charlie’s neighs 

showered with Samantha’s 

sweet ass DNA.

After stomping Fred’s head 

like a pumpkin in decomposition, 7 

Charlie trotted up the steps

to a place he’s been told is his home. 

As four foreign hooves landed 

on that manufactured Welcome Home mat, 

Elizabeth leveled in her corporate suit

I wanna make a baby tonight.

Can a horse perform on command?

Charlie galloped to his bedroom’s 

screaming red walls 

to rip the switch away.

A campfire of blood 

burned into the carpet’s undergrowth

as I rested my ten-pound head

in a hug-me-now hominid sleep.