Herniated Horsewoman

Gut punched. Stick the knife in and twist it.

I don’t want to spill my guts.
It’s a small tragedy, but it’s mine.
I want to cry and wail
and let the pain go in one massive explosion
then watch the skies clear as dust settles.

My plans were made and I’d saddled my pony,
a practice run for next week.
I thought I saw her looking wistfully at her companions out on the trail.
Desert spring songs are joyously enticing all things nascent.
I figured getting us aging mares out on the trail once or twice a week
would be good for us.

Imagine my disappointment.
It feels like a bodily betrayal, a stab in the soft underbelly, an insult to my intestinal fortitude.
If this is what it takes to bring the tears so be it.
Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.
You can say it two different ways, you know.

Still, I’d rather pull that pain around and laugh at it
than sit with it.
At the moment it isn’t giving me much of a choice.
You can laugh until you cry.

Platitudes are an easy fallback and distracting.
Trust my gut my ass.



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