My mother was rushed to the hospital
the night before my junior horse show.
All that summer I moved our living room furniture.
My feet were hooves carrying me through an imaginary arena—
to side G, the coffee table,
asking for a trot at the sofa; wall A.
My mother cheered from the hallway,
offering a soda after a hard day’s ride.
—
I set off on a jet-black pony with crooked white socks.
The first corner he pulled his weight to the center of the ring.
I tightened the reins, bent my right elbow, pulled him around,
snout to ass,
until he turned back on the rail to try again.
The arena was silent except for the crunch
and squeak of new riding boots.
—
At the end of the hospital bed,
yellow stuffed duck from the gift shop;
my feet pretending to trot—
my reenactment: hands
balled into fists, thumbs on top,
reining the horse back from fussing.
