Refusal
At the jump, she uses
her crop three
hard times in quick
succession,
the leather
gyrating.
Boos swell up
from the crowd, which
had cheered her on,
the horse now shivering
as she turns him
for the fence again,
clearing it
this time. Yet
no one claps, as if feeling
for the horse,
waiting for the strap,
hearing the snap,
aligning
with the horse in his
refusal.
***
Human
I loved to heft the saddle onto
the horse’s back,
to sway with the animal’s
rhythms, as if his gaits
were mine. The leather of the reins would “give”
between my fingers.
And up my own nostrils rose the leather’s scent,
its own particular and present life.
I wanted no more than this tack between me
and the animal—animal
to animal to animal.
I loved the sport of camaraderie,
our schooled partnership.
Wild horse on the plains,
what did you think of this domesticated
beast? Saddle. Ancient
decorator. I rode as if there were no urban
development. In a suburban forest, I was on a trail
few people passed.
Horse, between you and me,
history was as porous. A leather-maker hand-
crafted this saddle—in my hands
I feel his work as I hoist my own years
through the centuries.
***
Fáliron
On a back street near the hotel,
jockeys on slim thoroughbreds
clop through town, down
paved streets for want of grass.
I search for earth, as if feeling
the vibrations. I want to put my feet
down where it gives, but the shock
of asphalt reverberates up the leg.
The bones of the body asking
for cushioning. The loud horns.
The whish of traffic. The animal
pacing itself.
***
Horse Show
It was never winter. Winter had rubber boots
on. Winter sloshed about. We schooled our horses there—
in the indoor ring. Spring pulled us out with our
mounts. By summer, we were counting on ribbons. We had
our feet in the stirrups. Our heads were sweaty under our hard
hats. Our horses needed buckets of water, hosing down. If we didn’t
have our boots on, we would have hosed ourselves down too. But we
needed those boots. A horse could make a false move, for us—but not for them.
What must they have thought of our asking them to circle in the ring?
If we could have explained it to a stranger, would the reason have been
sufficient? Is the past so dreadful, like a summer with no rain? If we show our horses,
will that compensate for what we are about to lose? If time had a ring,
it would marry each of us. Death would do us part. The show would
be the minutes and the seconds going round and round. We keep
watching. We keep telling time. If only I could ride a horse instead.
If only those horses on the merry-go-round would turn real.
I have a secret to tell you. It’s riding a horse. They are going to pin a
ribbon on him, sliding it onto the bridle. He’ll be wildly excited by
the flapping, by the presence of a bird at the corner of his eye. I try
to restrain him, but I’m excited as well. As soon as we’re out of the
ring, I hop off and pull the ribbon off. Everyone glances at the
ribbon. It’s like a strange bird they need to name. We fly at horse
shows. We give our horses wings and they comply. That’s why we’re
happy there, and oblivious. With our ribbons, you can see us soar on a current
Pegasus—imagine the wings of my horse!
***
Donna J. Gelagotis Lee is the author of Intersection on Neptune (The Poetry Press of Press Americana, 2019), winner of Prize Americana, and On the Altar of Greece (Gival Press, 2006), winner of the Gival Press Poetry Award. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies and journals internationally, including Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Cadence of Hooves: A Celebration of Horses (Yarroway Mountain Press, 2008), The Global Game: Writers on Soccer (University of Nebraska Press, 2008), LINE DRIVES: 100 Contemporary Baseball Poems (Southern Illinois University Press, 2002), The Massachusetts Review, Sport Literate, and Southern Humanities Review. Her website is www.donnajgelagotislee.com.
