THE DAINTY MONSTERS
Michael
Ondaatje
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Tink, Summer Rider
A photograph: on a horse at fifteen
—a grim light brigade charge
with her hair turned by wind;
a frailer Penthesileia.
Now, stretched brown and longer,
she visits us on Sundays.
But she, too serious,
should wear her glasses at a tilt
for her body is torn
tree hard against the sun
and her rigid back
never betrays
a step of her flapping sandals;
perhaps the irrational sleeps at her feet.
She should smell of her horses
like a true European heroine.
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