“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.