CONSCIENTIOUS DAUGHTER
NINA SUDHAKAR
I dreamt of a horse — my mother holding
a horse — chestnut satin with a liquid mane
taking the shape of hidden air currents,
& beyond, the western expanse unfurled,
though I’ve never been there — & neither
has she — but perhaps the subconscious
travels. Steady hooves on a carpet of wild-
flowers, an indulgent whinny, eyes darting
to focus on those toothy mountains peeking
from the desert’s chapped lips. I wanted to climb
on — I wanted nothing more than to climb on —
but she dropped the reins & the horse bolted into
the river (the waters’ source unknown) & its
frothing, dissembling rapids. Treading with no purchase,
choking on the flailing, a last glimpse of velvet ears
sprouting from the milky churn. & I was keening,
there’s no wildness here, my salted tears drying out
the cactus prickling at my feet & begging to shed its
thorns. Until we were standing again on the red dust,
fascinated by the silver quills adorning the bare earth
at regular intervals, which, when I squinted, turned into
a pointed apparition, the afterimage of that feverish dream,
the freshly abandoned skeleton of an earthbound fence.
a horse — chestnut satin with a liquid mane
taking the shape of hidden air currents,
& beyond, the western expanse unfurled,
though I’ve never been there — & neither
has she — but perhaps the subconscious
travels. Steady hooves on a carpet of wild-
flowers, an indulgent whinny, eyes darting
to focus on those toothy mountains peeking
from the desert’s chapped lips. I wanted to climb
on — I wanted nothing more than to climb on —
but she dropped the reins & the horse bolted into
the river (the waters’ source unknown) & its
frothing, dissembling rapids. Treading with no purchase,
choking on the flailing, a last glimpse of velvet ears
sprouting from the milky churn. & I was keening,
there’s no wildness here, my salted tears drying out
the cactus prickling at my feet & begging to shed its
thorns. Until we were standing again on the red dust,
fascinated by the silver quills adorning the bare earth
at regular intervals, which, when I squinted, turned into
a pointed apparition, the afterimage of that feverish dream,
the freshly abandoned skeleton of an earthbound fence.
NINA SUDHAKAR is a writer, poet and lawyer. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Arcturus and Bitterzoet; for more, please see www.ninasudhakar.com.
