(Jack B Yeats)
Here’s what I shall tell the horses. How you hurt me. How you were pleading, then grateful, then sobbing into my hair. How you whispered to me that it was something amazing and unique, then later laughed it off as less than nothing, as the delusions of someone crazy and damaged, glancing at me with a coldness that froze every painfully familiar inch of me.
And the horses will jerk back their heads and snort their derision at all that you are. And they will understand that everything will be made to seem my fault. Because they know it is the naming of things that makes them so, that people will say I had choices at every stage: the before, the during and the after. That even now I could admit I’d been confused, that I’d made a terrible mistake. How easy. How calming.
But with their eyes the size of planets the horses will watch after me as I sweep and groom. They will walk with me across the sodden fields toward the grey, scudding clouds. And they will charge me to keep my word, to keep my word unchanged, to refuse to make good.
Because you cannot stop me telling them. You cannot stop them knowing.