Sophie and Horse

Wilma saw a horse in the dumpster. Stairs with carpeting, ugly, dizzy the patterns. I am not drunk, I am not drunk. Someone.

+++Said.

+++Woozy is a lovely arrangement between you and gravity. Someone.

+++Said.

+++One set of stairs, two, then three. Finally at the bottom.

The door, heavy door, that sticks at the slightest drop in temperature. And handle, with teeth, no – somehow gives off electrical shocks. But that’s impossible, says August. The laws of – I mean, the door isn’t plugged in.

+++Yes but still. Shocks.

At the dumpster, Wilma points. Her lips have curled. Curiosity, cute on her. Stray curl of hair in her eyes. I am not in love, I am not in love!

+++Inside the dumpster, a horse. Tall enough so its head and shoulders and lustrous back stick out over.

+++Horse snorts, clomps hooves. But is patient. Does not have sad eyes but big round sad maybe after all. What is sadness? This question a fire lately, burning through the brush and forest of our collective intellect. One plus one plus one plus one is four.

+++August, a jar in his hand. Water almost to the top. The moonlight. The animal. Plus one is five.

Sophie, inside dumpster, feet on floor of it. Strokes mane and snout. Horse purrs, purrs. Closes eyes, opens them. Sophie, on top of horse. Strokes mane. Whispers. Words come out, beautiful, sweet boy, hey gorgeous eyes.

Beach, in sand, soft, and soft light of moon, shadow and sugar, no treachery exists here, no deceit of any kind, no unhappiness, no bombs go off, no children go hungry. Horse each hoof sinks into sand. A comfort, a pleasure.

+++Whinny — is that what it’s called.

+++No a sigh.

+++Of relief.

Barefoot, Wilma, August, me, shoes in hands. Crooked strides, sleepy, the waves purr and pout, liquid dreams, Sophie light as air on horse’s back. Tail flies. Cool breeze.

+++In the sand, bongos. Bongos. And a boy. Rick he says. I’m not going back there, he says. Back where? To jobs and college man I’m not going back. This is the place.

+++Rick the bongos his hands move slow, lizards, then fast so fingers blur so hands blur so time blurs. We have forgotten our names or forgotten what they were for.

+++To tell us apart. To categorize. To live up to.

+++Dark night but Moon a woman in veils, sheer, her eyes making paths on the water. Snap of the tide. A play on themes, when, once, Wilma held too many thoughts in her head she had to let them out all at once. Wilma she held her ears that time to keep them in because she was afraid of what they would do when they got out.

+++Her thoughts lunatics escaping. Bricks in the asylum. The foundation of insanity. Bricks throwing bricks through windows of their own building. Windows swallowing bricks, spitting out patients. Wilma said that night of the trash cans and pudding: All the craziness in the world starts in my head.

Tonight though tonight, Wilma, calm. No bells in her ears. No sticks in her teeth. No whistles and orders from dead relatives to dig holes in public parks and strangers’ backyards. And what into the hole: this memory, that one, until they were all gone. So she would be blank. Being blank is better than being in pain. She wants to be blank. She wants them to want her to be blank, the relatives. No, no holes tonight. No memories. Her heart calm. Her head calm. Her eyes not burning, bloodshot. Her sweat not acid.

+++Horse its hooves go swssh swsssh swssh swsssh in the sand. The lifting and setting down of the Evidence of unconditional love.

The evidence of. I am not crazy! I am not crazy! Horse now Wilma guides toward the water so the tide rolls up ankle high. Cool on horse hooves. Pleasant. Water gets under hooves into crevices hard, softens them, liquid, jelly, sigh, the Horse.

+++August pushing his bicycle through water, just up over bottom part of tires, jar sticking out of light coat pocket that he only wears because it has pockets and he needs. Pockets. My hand in the water to cool the shocks the price of getting out. The price of bare-handed brick throwing.

+++Handles turn every day. Enter. Exit. Come in. Get out. Door to school, door to home, door to, door to, door to, door to, door, handles shockingly, handles burst into flames, handles with glue on them, handles with diseases, handles with balloons tied, handles painted red, handles with blood stains, handles made of stone, handles broken, boxed up, banged to shit, handles coughed on, spit on, pissed on, bled on, I said that, handles, handles, handles, get a handle on the situation, get a handle on yourself will ya!

Will ya, Wil ma!

Wilma squatted in the tide, cry, bawl, wail, scream, her hand shoots out, her teeth drip, why! why! why! August his bicycle floating in the tide, his bicycle part of the tide, his bicycle back into water form, going home. August puts the bucket on his head, I thought it was a jar, and stands there straight and hands at his side.

Sophie and Horse way up ahead.

August kneeling in the water, one arm around, saying No, me. I have you now you’re not empty now look you’re filled now look see Wilma see?