After the Sentence
I have read of a man torn apart by horses,
first four (as in an apocalypse) then six,
he required, yes, six in their obedient fury.
And still he did not recant or repent
though he cried out to Jesus
for mercy as he was divided
Only the horses and Monsieur Damien know
the weight of each limb, and this
is not blasphemy—
“Kiss me, gentlemen,” he asked, and so
one did, though not the priest.
Go figure—a body—divisible sums
and the flesh of sturdy horses—
before a Paris Church.
I am soft and have never learned to ride,
to carry any weight, to go any further
than my thin white flanks can take me.
A single horse could tear me to bits. I have
been taught only to read and parse,
to bear the dead on a hearse of words.
Cover image by Gene Devine