IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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WHAT EVERY GIRL WANTS

Joyce Sutphen

I wanted a horse. This was long after we sold the work horses, and I was feeling restless on the farm. I got up early to help my father milk the cows, talking a blue streak about TV cowboys he never had time to see and trying to convince him that a horse wouldn't cost so much and that I'd do all the work. He listened while he leaned his head against the flank of a Holstein, pulling the last line of warm milk into the stainless bucket. He kept listening while the milk-machine pumped like an engine, and the black and silver cups fell off and dangled down, clanging like bells when he stepped away, balancing the heavy milker against the vacuum hose and the leather belt. I knew he didn't want the trouble of a horse, but I also knew there was nothing else I wanted the way I wanted a horse— another way of saying I wanted to ride into the sunset and (maybe) never come back—I think he knew that too. We'll see, he said, we'll see what we can do.

 
 
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