Tell me again how you raised up


in the stirrups, held on tight


with your thighs, riding the colt


in circles with me as anchor


holding the lead and spinning


on my heels. Did you canter or


trot? I can't tell the difference,


but our Arabian didn't kick


or try to throw you that day.


Could you feel strength in my back,


arms, shoulders, through the line?


I see you now bouncing in black


and white, as in a film or poem:


I, the hero, would never let go.

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