holding on

it was easy
to make light of her horse.
it was old.
thirty three years old.
sway backed,
broken teeth,
flies
consuming her flesh
as she stood in the barn
on dark cracked hooves.
let her go, you'd say,
put her down.
relieve her from living
this way.
she can no longer
run,
or be saddled,
she can hardly see you
as you give
her a carrot
and brush her matted
coat.
is that what you want,
she'd say.
when it's your turn?