Mónica E. Gómez
Excuses are Exhausting
If I’m busy folding and creasing
logic into origami explanations,
trying to make my mistakes
look like little cranes or pretty stars,
I’m wasting precious time.
“I was wrong” takes mere seconds.
Please accept my admission of guilt.
My fallibility established, I can relax,
change into my jeans, and go visit my horse.
These days it’s all about a horse.
One big white guru who doesn’t accept excuses,
because there’s nothing to excuse
as long as I bring carrots, lots of carrots.
(If I share one with the mare next door,
he pins back his ears and squeals.)
Mostly, he munches his alfalfa shamelessly,
green flakes in his forelock, raises his head
from the feeder to look at me and the whole
concept of excuses is swamped by the dark
liquid acceptance in his eyes. The warm
odors of his existence engulf me,
his curious nostrils and lips snuffle
and mouth me, frisking hands and pockets
for the good things I bring.
His acceptance excuses a lifetime.
He even allows me on his back,
where I follow the graceful rocking
of his elegance and respect his pauses
for theological commentary when
he lifts his silky tail and deposits his
eschatological heft in the sand.