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.