(horse)
While I slept she had grown hooves, and her hair was longer than I remembered, and she was letting (this man) hit her, and she was getting excited about it. She kept saying, Beat me, Beat me… you know? I’d rather be beaten (she said). Beat me for an apple? Beat me for a little crisp red apple, for a sorb apple. I’ve got something to tell you. And the man looked up at the clock he was wielding, and the whip over his head, and (he must have been a student of Dali, for he paused for a length of time equal to–who could say?–was it a gunshot or a miracle?) a simple tear seemed to roll out of the corner of the painting. I didn’t hear anything.
I was then asked if I wanted to join them. I had to be honest–I said yes. And she continued… Beat me. Beat me a small number. Beat me a two or a three. Beat me a seven–if it hurts I’ll pull this chain. Beat me a ten, beat me a fifty, we really have a lot in common.
And the man and I were in perpetual dismay. We chased the post around and around, unsure of everything–except this: we didn’t want to hear any more about God.