Katrina Kaye

I am mule.

My bay, an obnoxious yap

from graying muzzle,

as I move from
under  master’s whip.

My velvet ears twitch

with distrust for the acts of man.

I will not be owned

and have grown impatient

with the repeated acts of

those who claim to know what’s best,
so I become obstinate

with mud to my knees

rebelling by standing still,
immovable in open
stall despite the whistle on the wind.

I want only a gentle hand, but deny

those offered me as though

their compassion was insult or pity.

No longer do I hold desire to plough forward,

but I long to preserve the moments

as they are gifted, one sunset, one thoughtful word,

one cube of sugar, one kindness at a time.

Hopefully, this perseverance

will lead me to dry pastures where only

the occasion fly distracts from

solitude and peace.

“Mule” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2022).