Slinger
by Jasmine Ledesma
I love the smell of fresh, pure manure. That sickly sweet burning. That earthen perfume. It wakes me right up.
I arrive at Buckles dressed for a violent storm. Big sweatpants and a thick blue sweater and then a waterproof coat over that. Red like a cock’s comb. Last night, the weatherman insisted that it was going to rain incessantly all through today late into the evening. His voice was urgent. He recommended extreme caution. But when I dropped the kids off at school this morning, the sun was still stomping down upon our heads like an axe upon the wheel. And still the streets were parched as I puttered down the highway listening to the pitch of the road beneath the tires. And even now as I pull into the parking lot, there are only a few isolated clouds above me. One is shaped like a sleeping rabbit, the other like a Daddy long legs smashed beneath your palm.
Buckles is the name of the riding academy for another hundred miles. It sits on the cusp of town. Far from the strip malls and nail salons and metropolitan-sized power plants pumping out diseased plumes into the skies. It is a simple, lonely patch of land. Ten stables house ten horses. Grass grows in excitable, mute bunches. On the weekends, classes are held for children. Some hold promise. Some have not much else to do. I’ve known the owner Kate for five years. Her and I are the same. I met her when I was still dreaming of shotguns and she was only beginning to forget the touch of delirium. She has known what it is like to stare down the throat of forever and see absolutely nothing. She has let me ride for free once a week for the last three years. In return, I bring her a birthday cake from the supermarket each spring. Flowers made of buttercream.
I strip off my coat and head inside to greet her. She’s washing out one of the stables with a power hose, the water shooting at the shit and bugs spread across the floor. She only realizes I’m there after I hit the wall a couple of times with my fist. And then she laughs.
You must be burning up, she says, turning off the hose and shaking her head at my sweater.
It was supposed to rain.
It’s always supposed to rain. C’mon.
She sets the hose down and leads me to the back. And then, there he is. My champion of zeros, Magic Eight. He is a Tennessee walking horse with a coat made of black silk. He’s not very pretty anymore. Flies poke at his lashes. But he used to stun. I’ve seen the photos. For most of his life he was a proper racehorse but has since retired. He hasn’t competed in eight years. Where he used to flaunt his lightning bolt muscles for a crowd of brilliant drunkards he now lives in a house of repeated comforts.
Kate sets us up. A saddle made of death leather and a frayed bridle are placed on Magic Eight. I put my helmet on and hoist myself onto his back. Then we go. I move slowly, easing into the stirrups. All I want to do is pace. From this part of the fence to that and then back.
It is a beautiful day.
The weatherman is an escaped loon and we should know better than to listen to him. But suspicion guides us. When you’ve been caught in a rain so cruel you couldn’t see but three feet in front of you, you do not ignore even the slightest of mist. Anything can happen.
After all, everything has.
I was thirteen with a pair of amphetamine wings. I knew darkness. And then twenty-four and laying in the same spot on the floor. I used to walk to die. I was more tar than person. Every time I drank, there was a criminal in my glass looking back at me. But I have been cool to the touch for eleven years. Learning how to ride Magic Eight — how to decide what you want, how the smallest movements warrant reactions, has been pivotal. This goddamn horse. Lead me to water. See if I drink. Make me.
I’m getting old. My kids are off learning about planetary movements and geometrics. Getting smarter than I ever was. It makes me proud to see. And my heart is still the hunk of meat it has always been. A piece of tin clanking within me. And maybe it will rain at the last second as nighttimes comes sauntering down the road. Maybe the rain is inside me.
But as I look out into the flat spine of the horizon and feel the light grind of wind and listen to the soft thudding of his hooves against the dirt, I am filled with a blonde, sterling sense of love. An assuredness. God set me down into my mother’s arms. I was wanted then. I can still be wanted. Kate watches me from beyond the fence. Mosquitos crown my head.
I am a slutmother. And I’m going to Heaven.
Jasmine Ledesma is a writer based in New York. Her work has appeared in or is set to appear in places such as Crazyhorse, Rattle, and [PANK] among others. Her work has been nominated for Best of The Net and twice for the Pushcart Prize. She was named a Brooklyn Poets fellow in 2021. Her novella Shrine was listed as a finalist for the Clay Reynolds Novella Prize. Her poem was highly commended by Warsan Shire for the Moth Poetry Prize.