• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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To Donkeys

I cannot forgive you, Donkeys. I cannot and will not
forgive you, and when I say ‘you’, I mean all
horses, too. (Yes, I know.) I cannot forgive you,
for that single time I - as a child who grew
late - had been consigned in the horse-riding
lesson to the scaled-down budget version:

you, Donkey, you. While the others trotted,
galloped, cantered, even, me and my
four feet and you and your own four
bastard hooves (which did not do
anything other than what they wanted to)
watched. We watched, observed

the courtly stances, the elegant dances
of Homo Sapiens and Equines. And it was
just at this moment in time, when I looked
away, you chose to quickly and forcefully
stick your belligerent nose in the food.

And I don’t know if you know quite
what an effective slide your neck is
but let me tell you, Donkey: I slipped
from the cross of your back into the trough,
down the tracks of your mane, in no time flat.


To Donkeys

What I remember, Donkeys, is seeing the world
from that trough. Looking up at all the others
and knowing I was bathing in swill, or whatever
you fuckers eat. You wouldn’t have bloody done this
to Jesus. I mean – Jesus: imagine the PR. So let’s
just agree to keep out of each other’s way, OK?
Because I cannot and will not forgive you.