Home on the Range
by Lynore Banchoff

Until I was thirteen, I knew myself
in the wild flow of an imaginary horse
corralled in my playhouse. With my
unbridled flesh and spirit, I rode out 
book chapters and Saturday matinees: 
Trigger and Black Beauty .
Roy and Dale, Autry and Oakley, 

Oh, give me a home... 

With my allowance, I bought
a brass horse at Thrifty’s, clutched 
its beaded reins as I carried it home 
like a treasure through the tunnel under 
the Red Car tracks. I talked to it, 
and when I turned the corner
of Beech Street, its polished body
had become soft and strong. Not

long after, I was told to become
a lady, and was trained to carry Kotex
in a plastic purse and not 
wear white. It hurt to fall off 
my horse, to have her fall out of me. I no
longer sang: Back in the Saddle Again. 
It  slipped away with my body. Saddles
became girdles, traces were braces
and reins-- the subject of debate. 

Oh, give me a home...

As an adult, I remembered that horse,
the suede nose and hard 
bones of its face, the feel of my hands 
on its long back, the eagerness 
to ride. I met the ghost of the girl
I had been. My hands and legs trained
by the years of holding on remembered
how to ride.

Oh give me a home