Eyes averted, shuffling an invisible
walk. A predator who feels like sad prey,
trying to pass for normal, trying to
hold balance. It doesn’t fool the mare.
She sees it all, distant movements in
her periphery or tiny broken parts deep
inside complicated humans; bruised
children in aged bodies; splintered
intentions colored with anger, brittle
betrayed love, honor abandoned for
sake of convenience. Details are less
important to the mare than the sour
emotions we hold tight. It isn’t her
job to patch us up and make us whole,
but for a moment, she can let us feel
what it would be like if we were.