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.
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.