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.