A proud gray horse with a soft eye.
Dwarfed by his manner, I almost
don’t feel the barb of his fishhook
slide between my ribs. It’s razor
sharp and nearly painless because
I’m distracted by his inquisitive ears
and sultry breath. Distracted by his
clear intelligence and warm muscles,
my hand resting under his mane.
Surrender, his hook cuts so deep
that scar tissue fuses metal to bone.
So strong that any other attachments
must break first. So easy that decisions
seem to make themselves, time loses
all order, or maybe we just stopped
caring about details. Whether the horse
is bold and strong, or frail and used up.
Whether it’s a hard-won girlhood dream
or horses have always been close by.
Whether we own them or they own us.