Calling the White Donkey

I called the white donkey that hurt my left shoulder
the last time it appeared, ramming me
with its ivory head, cracking my back
to relieve me of worry and hope.
I called the white donkey,
surprised at the sound of my voice.
Scared, I wondered if the white head
would give me its donkey brain,
snowy matter dripping into my ears
like the horse of the first man who fell off,
the donkey teaching me about desire
and the moan, that white hair on the back
of my head that warns me.

I called the donkey.
I came slowly toward me,
huge ears shaking with fury,
its breath turning the air white
as it bit into the white apple
of my throat.
I faced the donkey, watched
its gait become a shuffle of possession,
shaking its head as it stopped to
root its dirty hoofs in the ground.

I stepped back and clicked my fingers,
but it would not come closer, its snort
commanding I listen as it farted.
I walked away and did not know it was
I who yearned for labor of the ass
because the animal I summoned
couldn’ t remove the white scar from
my heart, a blind life I lived for good.