All morning I watched For-Sale videos.  
The horses’ legs moved in the way
only the legs of horses move,
 
not all horses, only the horses I want,
tall and brown, heads like whippets’
heads, heads like shoe lasts,
 
manes like actors’ hair, styled
to the moment.  The legs brown
and bandaged, regular, hooves
 
offering a slight but visible bounce
against the ground, light
showing between earth
 
and animal, the rider’s hands
spaced as if holding
the handles of a wheelbarrow,
 
her back lifted as if her legs elevated
the horse’s entire body,
the hands cradling.
 
It’s an illusion.  The horse
holds them both, carries
them, is circular, and linear.
 
In circles.  When I gave up horses
I believed I had lost
everything.  It’s possible
 
to make such mistakes of thought,
of habit, and now I will myself
to climb back, with my own hands,
 
my own legs, weaker
than a spider’s or a simple ant’s
writhing the pavement.
 
It could be years before I make things right.
Or months, pages of months,
calendar days.  I will lose my colored
 
pencils.  There are rich white women
who spend a rich man’s money,
and I have felt myself follow them
 
believing I deserve what they don’t
pay for, believing I can earn it,
whatever they ignore me for.
 
When I buy a new bridle,
I will test the stitching
against my fingers.
 
I will collapse the metal
of the bit and open it up.
Does it pinch?
 
I never really felt a bite like that,
but I came close.  Alone, not
alone.  Steps in the dirt of the arena.
 
We will all have to stop speaking
if we want to make the most of hearing.
Tread, rustle, beat, stamp, shuffle,
 
the placid music, the welcome,
the invitation, the brown legs,
the threat, the dream, the dream.

Lisa Lewis

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