Way to get back on the horse, she said.
With real horses I’ve only been thrown once,

then learned how to sit the spooks, stutter
-steps and caprices of half-ton beasts.

To be fair, I would not canter with a blind
spot under my nose, would not risk

my delicate bones to rise over a faux
brick wall. The worst was Louie,

an off-the-track thoroughbred, still
youngish, responding to any threat

or stress by taking off like a bolt,
counter-clockwise, back at the races,

leaning on my hands to go faster
and faster, back in the only place

he really knew.  I get instinct, nostrils
flared, the need to think things

out through action. And there’s
something about a horse, as if

sometimes they don’t know
their own selves, awkward

in their elegance, in recondite
eyes a sort of lingering sadness.