Dark eyes, older than her years,
the horse’s shoulder shows damage,
thick scars and a stilted gait, the
opposite knee blown large from the
work of compensating, shifting weight
for a different balance. What is it like
being a horse too lame to run, how to
survive the vulnerability we can’t escape?
Looking down to my own stiff joints,
scars that will not fade. Gray mares,
our instincts tamped down, forging a
thin trust in the lightness of letting go.