Lucy Holme

            Brown burnished gold, silken

            flank shivers with sweat.

            She comes near to sneeze, to stomp

            then leaves in a kinetic blur,

            a muscled sketch from Duchamp,

            I lay my palms flat as her muzzle

            sniffs and strong jaw chomp-chomps.

            She studies me. Lashes dark and wet,

            angles fine as cut glass.

            She resists form. After all, she is so young.

            They shout whoa pícara! Click their tongues

            when she rears and fumes.

            The bridle constricts blood flow,

            breath heaves as it tightens.

            Expansion curtailed, power diminished.

            I reach for her, but she eyes me with disdain.

            Turns to rise on hind quarters,

            lope like six beasts conjoined,

            across the prado.

            Every fly that lands creates a twitch

            that sends her in circles,

            proud breast raised skywards.

            She refuses to be scavenged,

            to be bled dry.

            Now I know her name, Carletta,

            I visit each sweltering day and build

            a life for her. Count the summers

            she has been on display.

            We greet each other as — not quite

            old friends — but something close.

            We are of a similar temperament:

            enraged by things we cannot convey.

            We speak a different language,

            but I can sight-read the low simmer,

            her impatience with her teachers.

            Against the rope fence, I hold

            her reins, white-knuckled,

            a luchadora they will try,

            and fail to tame.