My Grandfather spat tobacco bridling his limbs to stand. He mixed cortisone and bourbon raising a beaker to spoilt loaves saying 'God rest her soul'. I hid his shotguns that day as he looked for bullets, his quarry, my unbroken horse. That day I discovered jackals barked from his bitter tongue "Your're just like your Mother you Fatherless bastard" truth matures from sour mash. I hid in the stable with 'Donkey' but I called him 'Beauty' Grandfather never broke him just Grandma, when she died face down on fresh linen. I freed 'Beauty' and wept. Watched him buck and run, thought of Mums death and my murderous birth born again each October fifteenth by grandfathers matches and grandma's icing. He locked the stable door loaded his gun yelling 'Donkey' as I watched through the wood lattice. 'Beauty' was shot in the hind leg tried to stand three times but fell. by the time I escaped the stable he stood shaking in canter clouds and walked with me till he died. Grandfather called me a cissy only to die on St Patricks day face down in vomit on his knees alone by his broken horse.