Yes. I rode out west with the girl I loved.(There will be those who say I did not love her)I could not drive I was her passenger andpacked apples, so much water, read her booksaloud until the road got dark.She lived a body in my body. A pack of studs,my hand on her thigh, I traced each routealong our paper map we're almost there almost. Long past when I was wanted I wore her ring andcounted golden hay, herd thinning, clearingwhere, in August, the sun bounced off unmoving flanks.Edge of Pine Ridge, a dock with private cabins, I pressedmy tongue to her ass the way a young girl mighttake a pressed flower from her diary and place itin her mouth. I was the mouth her mouth foundin any darkness, I knew her, her sadnesswormed a hole inside my throat. Each powwowwe ate fry bread, not her grandmother'sbut close. I touched the white stone faceof Sitting Bull, monuments riddled with bullet holes.Crow fair, my poetry traded with a manfor a painting on a patch of fur. This a story I know, she said. This is the archer,his horse, his four directions. This was an animal once, I thought. This is the story of a body.A young boy cupped his hands, a stirrup, we got on. Each night my throat a pocket, grave for horsesI want to tell you how I loved her buta field flooding.No. A white horse. No I wanted to wash up mythic and heavyso heavy she couldn’t lift up even one leaden leg. Much less claim me.