Poetry

HOLY
Preakness 2006

The ankle of a horse is holy.
~Larry Levis

A blue-eyed boy in a field rides bareback
on a horse made entirely of hay. They ride
in circles, and where the horse steps,
its hooves leave prints that sprout black tulips.
The field wears them like a crown.

The horse was once a sturdy bay. The horse
once won a race, its four strong legs thundering,
its neck stretched against the reins. Its jockey
wore blue and white silks, and smiled.

The boy-A long time ago, I loved him
so fiercely that it made me afraid.
He was once warm and real as hope
beneath the hand I rested
(as did he)
below my waist.

I see them from the top of a rise
as the boy turns the horse and they walk away.

I would like to believe the boy knows me,
sees me, as I watch the bay's straw legs vanish
in bluegrass deep as waves. I would like to believe
that because I was once his mother,
the boy is like me in even my most secret ways.

My son, this is what hope rests on: frail bones,
frail as yours the day of your still birth,
frail as a horse's ankle as it moves-
too brave, too fast, and too certain-
on a hard, hard way.

~Amy Tudor