Reely rural

I cannot turn around and I cannot play a reel
but I can tell you all this is not real.
This is some man’s fantasy: my youthful face
eternal held against a perfect pastoral scene
more appropriate to
piano
flute
violin.
Perhaps a harp, to catch
the cleaving glitter of a double rainbow.
Instead, I have this pleated bowing breathing leather
appropriate only to caw and crow.

Look at my hands, look at them:
they cannot hold my child;
cannot hold a tune.
Might manage one breathless pressing wail.
Come close, really close, and look at me.
The weather and time have cracked my skin,
and if you sniff the air… those animals sh*t everywhere.