It was folly, the way I let the foal out into the yard. I thought she'd like to trot the perimeter as I had done when we first arrived. I thought she'd like to know where the world ended and divided.
The fence round our yard, how did it end? Teeth picked from the wood, from the floss. When she was gone, you came out to me, the whip in your hand, your face clenched into knots. I never knew the spoke of it, the slip
from one braided box into the next. You were the branding iron, I the ox.