Honey, the horse is dreaming again. Its legs chase something undefined & unwritten: a vision, a moment, a girl. The horse is running. It’s running away. Its muscles ripple like an arrow bound for the heart; the bowstring, of course, being the horse’s hooves neat and nimble as it gallops. Finally it’s racing—really, it is!—and it’s leaving and it’s wonderful but it’s far too late, the great escape. But the horse doesn’t know that, so it runs on home like it has someone waiting and all the time in the world to get there. The horse will be lucky if it gets half the time we had; most people would be. But the horse doesn’t know that, either, so I don’t say anything. I let it chase a dream like it’s destiny. I let it flee. So the horse splits the scene, whinnying and huffing until it blows the whole thing down. But that was a wolf, remember? It was big and bad. This horse is different. This is a good horse, and this good horse can survive. It’s clever; it can manage. It finds a car and jumps it and takes off without its problems: all it brings is an alibi that’ll shut up if it knows what it’s good for. So the horse drives in silence, the car busted and worn like most things the horse has known. The horse also knows every good thing must come to an end, so it isn’t surprised that the tank is on E and has been for a while. Escape isn’t sweet if it’s watching you down an oiled barrel, etcetera etcetera. Left between a rock and a hard place, the horse abandons its recklessness and cuts the engine and gets out of the car. It lies down and lets it happen—lets what happen? Well, you hazard a guess—like it knows the exit wound is coming and has been for a while. And in a parting gift you pat it. You pat the horse and bat your eyelashes and maybe you’re innocent, after all. You, dressed in white with hair wound in ribbon. For a split second I believe it: that you’re there and you’ve done nothing wrong and you’re mine and beautiful and true. There you are, you, your palm on the wild thing as it leaves itself. But there’s blood and it’s all in your teeth and you’re drifting and the horse is sinking and really your touch is a fist pounding on a door demanding entry. The horse has been dead for a while. It wished and wanted and died all the same for it and you’re no longer mine and I’m no longer the horse.
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H.R. Thorn (she/her) is a poet, editor, and student at Emerson College pursuing her life passion of poetry. Through her writing, she seeks to unravel all of the raw edges of the human experience. She is the author of one poetry collection, What Happened Was. You can find more of her and her work at hrthorncontinued.com.