In my dreams, I never left those 25 or so acres
of arid desert, propped up by fence and driftwood
Demarcated by telephone lines and thorn bush
Every night, phantom feet carry me to the arena
Sand returns to genesis, crushed glass
naked familial hope reflects on the floor
Between the stacks piled 3-meters tall
With hand-me-down china and heirloom furniture,
broken typewriters and torn clothes
The horse stares back at me. Doesn’t move.
Its fur is mangled and hanging from split sinew
Muscles ripped and viscerally desperate to run
If you were to snap open my ribs like
a wishbone, our insides would look the same
winding digestive tracts and two fat lungs
and yet I know that stallion is stronger than me
I’ve seen him rip out shoulders and tear flesh,
more predator than prey despite those sideways eyes
peering inward, trying to decide how difficult
it would be to push past me, knock me to the dirt
out the doors of the barn and into the wasteland around us
I suppose I would be angry too, seeing two separate
worlds with every turn of my head, unable
to detect dangers before my ears, behind my legs
having to rely on the kindness of strangers—of masters
to digest the four fence walls caging me
to eat sterilized hay and sunburned grass, drier than bone
Broken, ridden, stalled. I consider stepping aside
and giving him a fair shot at running. I know he won’t make
it far, because his legs aren’t much longer than mine.
