Susan Rothenberg's Horse

I've seen some great ones in the rodeo:

Kristie Peterson's at the Cow Palace,

rounding the third barrel

with more slide than Ote Berry,

attacking the pattern

as if it were his last meal.

In the stands, a cowgirl lifting her baby,

a daughter, as if we were all

watching a woman president,

to imprint a future on the baby's mind.

A future like a huge canvas

filled with a horse in extended canter,

its planes of energy streaming northwest,

southeast, southwest, east.

A particular horse, and all horses.

It used to scald me, it was a burning

whenever my psyche

snatched up a frightening episode

and cordoned it off for safety. It might be

a dangerous man, or any transgression.

I could credit my good therapist, or else

the syndrome just went away. Some say

time is the best therapist: You lose

your bloom, and men no longer come running.

I went to the National Finals Rodeo

the year Ruth Haislip rose from 115th

to second. That year, it snowed in Las Vegas

and Ruth's horse, being from Lodi,

had never seen snow and was exhilarated.

He wanted to cut off the pattern

going into the last few rounds and Ruth

had to work hard to keep him

straight and narrow. I took Ruth

a good-luck message before round nine,

the barrel racers' quarters nearly dark

at five in December, my footsteps

cloaked by sawdust, the great horses

morosely awaiting their riders.

Barbara Wilcox