by Bridget Lowe
You were a liberty horse, parading around
the ring without a rider. You needed no one
to direct you, to tell you where to turn.
It was like having the voice of God in your ear,
whispering your name over and over again,
lovingly. You were the body
left after a beheading—a stopped gap of time
in which you did not need a mind.
It was sublime.
Then they lined you up before a panel
of judges, who commented on your hairdo
and your technique, both of which
they found lacking. Cruelty came
like a surreal joke. The audience cheered
for more. You liked it.