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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