T. E. BALLARD

  

Revelation

Out of my mouth ride
the four horses of the Apocalypse,
past your shirt folded neatly.
Red, orange, green, blue, they canter,
their warm breath a mix of rye and meadow,
steaming the bathroom mirror
causing their wings to press wet,
heavy on the outside of my leg.
And they are not what I imagined,
these doomsday agents of Revelation,
rather the soft form of women
naked in body: part horse, part skin.

Their colored tongues speak to me,
tracks are made in white flour
across the kitchen floor.
I sweep up their motley refuse,
smell life on the tips of my fingers,
all the while trying to close
this doorway into myself,
the one made by your hands,
the wood of your words,
a cavern wide enough
for four dark riders to ride through.