I learned to ride out             
            of necessity
as if it were the town               
            that bore me:
bareback at the brim             
            of the river
banking Sunday’s best,             
            abandoned
briefs on bushes             
            & the burden
some bodies can’t help                           
            but bare bent
back into baptism                           
            or bowed before
the berth of a tree. I bred               
            bottles of brandy
& hickory bark between             
            my breasts, bound
them both in the silt beds               
            that buttressed 
all my belief. Burned             
            the good book
badly with the backhand             
            of my body. Still,
I grew broad. Blew blood             
            from bruises
& pulled brambles             
            from my braid,
my braid, then, from my             
            belongings.
Borrowed buckles, robbed             
            boys of more
than my benevolence. I bet             
            my body
on being born again before             
            some other god
could beat me to it. Bunked             
            down to make
bail & left my boots once             
            I’d found my balance.
Pardon the filly in the thicket             
            when the bargain’s
my heart. Blame me: I left             
            the bridle hanging
from a branch, unbothered. 

Deaf, genderqueer poet Meg Day is the author of Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street, 2014). Day is the 2024 Guggenheim Poet-in-Residence and teaches in the MFA program at North Carolina State University. www.megday.com