The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Nancy Devine

REINS

Some nights

I, a little beetle,

got where my grandfather used to sleep

to listen to my grandmother tell stories.

This old woman nightly

unwrapped her corset as if she were unfolding

a strait jacket

her heavy arms loose as

new sheets hung up in bad winds.

She hoisted me up with her into a carriage in Iowa

where a horse

rattled by the sound of his own breathing

or clouds

or a memory of a devil

went running wild

as if

to spread fire.