by Dante Fuoco
For thirty years my mother owned a horse, a horse I didn’t know existed until it died. Rich people own horses, of course. How could she? I was going to college. She hadn’t cried. A horse I didn’t know existed until it died— Wait, no. I remembered the bills, how they angered my father. How could she? I was going to college. She hadn’t cried. I laughed. I mean, to not ride it, to not bother. Wait, no. I remembered the bills, how they angered my father. “You pay what? How much? For a horse you never use?” I laughed. I mean, to not ride it, to not bother. Now I’m thirty. How do you bridle pain? saddle abuse? “You pay what? How much? For a horse you never use?” Rich people own horses, of course. Now I’m thirty. How do you bridle pain? saddle abuse? For thirty years my mother owned a horse.
Dante Fuoco is a genderqueer poet, performer, playwright, and video artist based in Brooklyn. Her latest solo show, no! i be seal, was recently staged Off-off-Broadway. His poetry has appeared in KGB Bar Lit and mutiny!, among other publications. A nationally recognized educator, he manages restorative justice and arts programs for a Bronx non-profit. She also coaches an LGBTQIA+ adult swim team in the city.
