question mark / the length of silence / after a loon’s call
Her words would be carried along the wind had she been any farther away, but he bows his head to her, muscles straining to hold that weighty skull up and says, “Yes.” The stallion’s eye drifts half-shut and then there’s something soft against his nose and he almost flinches, just a twitch, but there’s a flash of panic in that cracking rainbow and a flick of crumbling-dirt ears. He consents but dreads. His chest pinches; that lung cannot carry his fear. He remembers what it is to be touched kindly, mother, and her name is out: Isra.
Not mother.
The last time he was touched, he lost.
Most times he is touched, he hurts.
It is not a matter of abuse - never was - but a matter of always picking fights because what else could be done when you are the one they want to hurt, anyway, even if it’s only on the inside? Hurt them on the outside, too. They’ll never forget if it’s gouged out of their chest, and neither will anyone who sees the cavity.
He wants to be touched kindly. Softly. Without malice, without challenge, without thrill of battle and glory of victory and shame of defeat. Softly. Softly. Like Mother, Isra.
Toro’s lip struggles into something that was almost half a smile, maybe a quarter, and he exhales, “Toro,” death-pale and aching.
@Isra poem
"What I say,"
What I think,
