HOOVES

She left me,

walking away through fields of carrots and corn.

I recalled every time

I had embarrassed myself in her presence,

been dirty, sick, stupid, and drunk,

and I wanted to reel all those memories back into myself,

though I knew they would corrode me,

for I was not like her,

with a mind like a typesetter’s drawer.

At first the Townspeople brought offerings,

sugary wine and chocolates in obscure flavours:

fire, copper, pavement-after-summer-rain.

They brought these things because they were desperate,

for I was the only doctor, though I had none of the qualities

you might expect:

clear eyes, strong hands,

an abstract commitment to humanity.

For days after she left me, I persevered,

threw out my old bras,

neatened my eyebrows,

pierced my ears,

streaked my nails gold,

but I was too frightened

to open my door.

Townspeople gathered outside my windows,

five deep at each pane, thinner every day,

their jewellery tarnishing. Meanwhile

ferns refurled, light snow whirled down, and I could hear

the soft wood of my house

giving way. At every turn

I felt my brain’s black rot slosh in my skull.

I woke to the sound of some foreign sea in my ear.

And so I ran.

At first I took the path she’d walked to leave me.

I ran into new seasons, new ages.

I ran till my hooves wore down completely,

then I wobbled on stumps.

The Townspeople and their ailments,

their cancers and pregnancies, nearly forgotten.

My loyalty only to myself, even though

I’d discarded my name.

I staggered on my kneecaps, I had grown very thin, and yet

if I balanced at a certain angle,

my features were not unbeautiful to me.

I moved through old lands, old industries.

What was left of my legs

contained much impacted material: gravel and dirt,

but also cigarette butts, takeout spoons,

pennies and french fries and dimes

all driven up into the flesh,

but the real humour came

when I wore myself down to my pelvis.

I laughed as I rolled forth,

but not the laughter you’re imagining:

black, deranged, torn; it was the laughter

of a good-natured person

who has jogged into a telephone pole.

I gave myself over to feats of concentration:

how long could I live with this stick in my eye,

with my neck at this angle?

I had always been clean, and luckily in the later months

the rain kept me in the manner

to which I was accustomed.

And then, one hour, I was subjected to a vision.

At this point summer was collapsing into fall

and I had worn myself down to my rib cage,

yet still I rolled forth.

In this vision my body had been refurbished,

and I walked to a field of bluebells and stood just at the edge,

for I could no more imagine trampling the flowers

than I could imagine trampling

a field of human faces.

I stood just at the edge of this field, and Townspeople

appeared in a circle around it,

each one healthy and well tended, as if, in my absence,

they had taken their bodies into their own hands.

Beneath my house the seasons moved in waves. I despised the rank, custardy sunlight. The arrogant needlework of winter.

I felt a luxurious contentment in this, as we all drew closer,

this makeshift community, and noticed

the banked glow of our skins.

But I was torn early from this vision,

before it could bring me true comfort or clarity.

I woke alone at the end of a stranger’s driveway,

having worn myself down

to my broad shoulders,

which during the course of my journey I had come to love,

if only because

they resembled hers, which I remembered in detail:

specifically how they looked in her sweater,

as she walked away.