The Viewing Room
Lips locked shut, you ride by the windows, staring inside. Your eyes -- blank
and round, like plastic. You are quick, moving down the ring side, your body
shifting in time to your horse's tail. Maybe you look to see why I'm resting
when there's work to be done -- bodies to groom, legs to bandage, whiskers
to clip. Maybe you look to see how I sit -- legs crossed, eating a small, packed
dinner way past the time. Maybe you want me to smile back through the thick,
shatterproof panes. Not the slightest grin spreads across your face. No gait breaks
in your horse's stride. You lean down to study the neck, and the green gelding
gives in, dips his nose down, and loosens the grip of his teeth on the bit. You spin
in smaller circles, turning your head, watching me rise. I place my fingers flat
against the cold glass, fixing my palm in a still, frozen wave, my skin blending
with window. I press the surface. I imagine pushing through, but I bring the hand
back down, swallowing the last of my late night meal, accidentally biting my lip.
Before closing, you halt and look in again. Maybe you see me lower my head,
chin against chest, hands folded in that look of feeling full. I breathe and rise.
Lifted, I slide up and out of my seat in the viewing room, giving it up.
C.A. MacConnell
