If I Were A Horse

By Emma Monroe

I saw a boy get kicked by a horse when I was nine,
watched him saunter up behind her body,
his dad’s back turned as he spoke to the trainer-

not that I think he would’ve stopped it anyway.
The boy slowly toed his way closer, careful to be quiet,
though I could see his shoulders shake with giggles.

The old horse, Kacy, was my favorite on the farm,
with her deep brown mane weaved with streaks
of gray, her back sunken in from worn saddles

rocking against it. Her teeth had grown weaker
so I’d feed her apple slices from my fingers after
each session, and she’d bump her nose with mine.

She stood there against the gate, sweat trailing down
her legs, enormous body heaving and worn.
So focused on her exhaust she didn’t anticipate

the prepubescent hand slamming onto her rump.
A beat later I watched her leg jerk toward her stomach
before straightening out right into his side.

The boy screamed- an ear-piercing cry that sent every
animal headed for shelter as he rolled by her feet,
dirt caking on the tear streaks down his face while

Kacy gave a quick look back, before trotting away.
He came back the week after smiling, coddled by his father,
both unaware of the freshly vacant stable.

When I was twelve a boy at summer camp did the same to me,
laughter and soft mulch covering the sound of his steps.
If I were a horse I would’ve reared back my legs

and launched his chubby body across the playground,
listened to my hooves pound against the ground
as I raced toward the adjacent forest, my name

brushing against the watching children, demanding
their attention as my body barreled past.
I would’ve dashed through the trees, bark scraping

against my skin as blood trickled down my legs, leaving
splotches on the wild-grown grass as the sound of
wailing turned into leaves crunching- then silence.

Instead, I pushed him and watched his knees bump
against the see-saw, hitting the ground on his back.
When he screamed a counselor drug me back inside,

sat me in a chair facing the corner, and called my mother.
What violence is depends on the body it comes from.
If he were the horse, would it have been different?

Emma Monroe is a senior majoring in English and comparative literature. She is from Carolina Beach, North Carolina, and is a member of the UNC Phi Alpha Delta pre-law fraternity.