You tied my hands behind my back and rode me into this desert. You
said, I trust you,
but please, I must make this knot tight. And when we got two days in,
you said, Now I must go, would you like me to untie you? I said,
Please, and you pulled me
from my horse, kicked me and rode away. My horse's reins
wrapped around your wrist. It took an hour, I think, or maybe a
whole day,
to untie my hands and rise to follow what was left of your tracks.
After another hour, maybe it was a day, I came upon a family crossing
in a covered wagon.
A mutt lapped water from a tin bowl.
The father said he wasn't supposed to give me anything to drink, said
you'd given me little sips
every hour, that I'd be good another two days.
A girl poked her head out the wagon's canvas cover. The man called to
his wife, Sarah,
don't let her come out.
I looked at my hands, rubbed the red rope marks on my wrists. We
were warned
about you, he said, isn't it time you moved on? I think it's time you
moved on.
