by Linda McCarriston

    You know that they burned her horse

    before her. Though it is not recorded，

    you know that they burned her Percheron

    first， before her eyes， because you

    know that story， so old that story，

    the routine story， carried to its

    extreme， of the cruelty that can make

    of what a woman hears a silence，

    that can make of what a woman sees

    a lie. She had no son for them to burn，

    for them to take from her in the world

    not of her making and put to its pyre，

    so they layered a greater one in front of

    where she was staked to her own——

    as you have seen her pictured sometimes，

    her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

    not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

    They were not closed. Though her hands

    were bound behind her， and her feet were

    bound deep in what would become fire，

    she watched. Of greenwood stakes

    head-high and thicker than a man's waist

    they laced the narrow corral that would not

    burn until flesh had burned， until

    bone was burning， and laid it thick

    with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur，

    kindling and logs——and ran a ramp

    up to its height from where the gray horse

    waited， his dapples making of his flesh

    a living metal， layers of life

    through which the light shone out

    in places as it seems to through the flesh

    of certain fish， a light she knew

    as purest， coming， like that， from within.

    Not flinching， not praying， she looked

    the last time on the body she knew

    better than the flesh of any man， or child，

    or woman， having long since left the lap

    of her mother——the chest with its

    perfect plates of muscle， the neck

    with its perfect， prow-like curve，

    the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft

    pennoned with the silk of his tail.

    Having ridden as they did together

    ——those places， that hard， that long——

    their eyes found easiest that day

    the way to each other， their bodies

    wedded in a sacrament unmediated

    by man. With fire they drove him

    up the ramp and off into the pyre

    and tossed the flame in with him.

    This was the last chance they gave her

    to recant her world， in which their power

    came not from God. Unmoved， the Men

    of God began watching him burn， and better，

    watching her watch him burn， hearing

    the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror，

    his crashing in the wood， the groan

    of stakes that held， the silverblack hide，

    the pricked ears catching first

    like driest bark， and the eyes.

    and she knew， by this agony， that she

    might choose to live still， if she would

    but make her sign on the parchment

    they would lay before her， which now

    would include this new truth： that it

    did not happen， this death in the circle，

    the rearing， plunging， raging， the splendid

    armour-colored head raised one last time

    above the flames before they took him

    ——like any game untended on the spit——into

    their yellow-green， their blackening red.