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. 

Back to the Issue