Category: Writing

The horse moved quietly among us in the street
 The giant head of this horse did not whinny
 There were no thoughts behind its dark eyes when I looked into them
 We talked about such horses being noble creatures but what is a virtuous horse?
 It was bred to be a working animal and therefore we imagined it was like us
 The horse moved away and climbed a hill on which there was a plinth
 When it arrived there it adopted a fighting pose
 Both forelegs tore at the grey sky
 The halo of the sun shone behind the horse’s head
 Immediately, the self-sacrificing horse jumped high into the light
 It seemed to reach a very great height
 Then, I admit I felt for a moment both sickness and fear
 (I did not want to look
 But look we all did, just in a glance)
 The horse’s thick neck broke awkwardly underneath its fallen body
 What was the ideology of the horse?
 What was it thinking?!
 It was tough then to look into its dead eyes

I remember it was a rainy night, and cold
 For our reunion my father took me to his favorite restaurant
 His Chrysler Valiant was painted pearlescent white
 He drove much too fast of course on slippery roads, and parked in a dark street
 When we arrived it was already very late
 In this part of town theatre people, and prostitutes, were everywhere
 A tall man with an ornate beard stood in the restaurant window’s light
 My father was known here so, when we entered, we were seated immediately
 One elderly couple had brought their little tan-and-white dog to dine with them
 It was creating a puddle on the floor underneath their table
 A large party had formed near us, several tables crashed together
 There was laughter and shouting for more wine and bread
 For a while the restaurant was a chaos of yellow light, food and noise
 Tables rearranged themselves like Dodgem cars
 And my father’s table crashed the party forming in the centre of the room
 There were some people we knew—Susan, for example
 She was relating the story of her assault on the base camp of Everest
 And there was Thomas, the tiny but famous author with white stubble
 I tried to listen to everyone, and even to Susan whose story I had heard before
 Thomas tried to speak to me to tell me about something he thought important
 I watched his mouth as it spoke to me
 Then, unfortunately, Susan saw that I was no longer listening to her
 She leaned forward, stared me down, tugging at her ear
 Oh, Susan, I said, no one wants to hear what unrecyclables you left at the feet of the gods
 So, she was hurt of course but I did not see any way of avoiding it
 And Thomas and the secret he was whispering to me were gone
 People had already started to leave before the lights went up
 It was the time of morning bakers go to work
 My father took his coat and headed out before me
 He did not wait for me and crossed the road
 His silhouette marched into a narrow laneway and then it turned a corner
 That was where I also turned to follow after him
 I found only wide, dark pools of water there
 The steep road, winding along the edge of a city park, was empty
 The early morning smelled shiny-wet, and he was nowhere to be seen
 I walked in circles and walked in circles and then came back to where I’d been
 I fell in a gutter and my skirt and shoes were soaked
 The man with the elaborate beard was still standing there
 Even after several hours he was still waiting though I didn’t know for what
 And inside, I could see through the window the dining room being dismantled 
 Renovations that could not be started during service had begun
 And workers were already atop of their ladders getting ready to paint
 The old patron said, it’s cold outside come in 
 Thank you, if you don’t mind, I will use your restroom, I said to him
 And slipping in, behind me, the strangely bearded man followed me 
 Me too, he said, pretending we were together
 Behind a door from the dining room the bakers were on the morning shift
 A beautiful young girl with the tray of sweets swept past me, smiling
 Try, she said, and tilted the display toward me
 I could smell the powdery confection under my nose
 Warm, nutty and sweet, and ready to eat
 And behind me the smell of my new, wet friend
 His arm stretched over my shoulder to grab a treat
 His beard, thin as a tattoo, sculpted into spirals, scratched my cheek
 I could have fucked him then and there
 It was what we wanted, but we threw ourselves into a soft sofa
 In the family rooms there were other diners who also had returned, defeated
 My wet friend wrapped his legs around me
 I looked closely into his eyes, asking for reassurance but finding none
 I kept one hand on his shaven neck and with the other painted his lips with sugar