That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood
leading toward the night.
Pablo Neruda ‘Walking around‘
MONDAYS
The helplessness.
The memory of his rancid smell.
The utter lack of power.
The fear, the disgust, the shame.
Interrupted by a few, short weeks of complete joy.
Horses.
The delicious smell of sweat on their winter coats,
the snow and the icy air.
I gave myself willingly to their strong bodies,
without fear or need for control.
Trusting, complete bliss.
Dreaming of what could be, should be.
Then the world returned to the color gray.