Article written by Yosha Pathmaperuma
Illustration by Hengjia Liu
This piece was originally published in ‘Memento Mori’, Bossy’s 2021 print edition.
CW: Animal death.
You’re a colt who is too tall for your age,
With every step you trip, fall, and sway.
I see your ankles aren’t the right shape,
And I realise your legs are in pain.
They tell me to get the bottle from the table
That sits right near the door of your stable.
And while I wait, bottle in hand,
I look at the pills, try to understand.
They are deep red, with a subtle shine,
Like precious stones to this mind of mine.
And in my hand, I hold these stones,
Which seem to me like red-hot coals.
These crimson stones are precious to me,
Because they mean that you’ll be free
From the endless pain that keeps you bound,
And free from what makes your legs unsound.
But these coals I hold in my hand, you see,
Come with a price, my sweet Murphy.
Their constant presence will sadly mean
That your true freedom can never be seen.
For they are deadly, these red, hot coals.
Take one of these, your dependency grows.
For then, my darling, you will always need
Cold, unwelcome hands that these coals to you feed.
This must be routine, and while ignorance is nice,
The pain will come back, like shards of ice.
And so, dear Murphy, the last thing to do
Is to take you away, it’ll be over soon.
Don’t cry, Murphy, I promise it’s for the best,
And I’ll cry enough for me and all the rest.
For you see, Murphy, the greatest cost
Of this is that your foaldom was lost.
You lost it anyway, when you grew too fast,
Nature’s way of saying, “He cannot last.”
And now, lovely Murphy, they will take you away
To the back field, right by all your hay.
It’s a beautiful day, Murphy, but not for long,
As the birds continue their incessant song.
I think they want you to take solace in them,
So you won’t feel alone at this moment’s end.
For animals know what goes on in the world,
And they do not want to see another get hurt.
And so, my love, in the bright autumn air,
The syringe glints wickedly, harsh and green,
Against the reds of the leaves, your skin, your hair.
And I, from afar, watch you fall.
But now your legs can’t hurt you at all.
We are quite similar I think, you and I,
For both of our childhoods died that night.
As a girl I was foolish, never knowing death or grief,
But even as a foal, you knew each one in brief.
And now, special Murphy, you’re off in the clouds,
Galloping around, and neighing so loud!
You are finally the foal you always wanted to be.
And we are down here; “It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”
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