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Is it dark already?

 

By then, boys were afraid of horses and

the empty skins slung on branches, their

unsaddled backs broad as spindly mountain

ranges. Surely you’d just slide down both

sides at once until your brain, even your last

central hair shaft, was parted. But these were

less scary than the backs with saddles on,

saddles heavy as an Edwardian hospital contraption

that wrestles you to the fine bed and shiny as

the inside of a mouth, cracked as the skin of his

thumb from burning and twisting the ends of

rope, stinking of the animal and its uses.

 

 

 

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