“I would be a wild thing.
I would be lean and lithe and fast.
I would be the wild horse.”
I dreamed out loud.

“Wild horses are no good,” he said.
“They’re inbred. They’re prone to disease.”
“We’re prone to disease,” I said.
“My mother said second cousins was far enough.”

I wondered how it felt to be the hoof that hit the soil,
the thudding jolt through fine bone,
through a long leg built like the human hand,
like this hand,
the one that withstood his fist.
I tented my long fingers
and leaned across the table
to speak clearly
where the eyes couldn’t miss me.

Originally published at on November 3, 2020.



Elan Morgan (Schmutzie)

Writer and Web Designer. See also: lover, fighter, object of subjectivity. and