The Riding Lesson

To mount a horse you clutch
handfuls of mane. To mount
you swing your leg. You yield
to this chestnut mare. To find the center,
look where you want the horse to go.
You stay calm and she will be calm. To be calm
you look down to your mother’s thinning hair.
Her sing-song instructions
roll over this farm’s endless green.
To hold the horse between your thighs,
grab her here. Braided leather cinches
the horse’s belly. Her stiff tail hair
twitches in the coming evening.
When you were a baby your mother’s hair
was brown and feathered. Let your hips give,
like a rocking. You smell mud and warm muscle.
You are not prepared for the dismount.
You pull from the stirrups
your feet in borrowed boots.
To get down you must swivel,
press your stomach to the saddle seat.
For a breath your legs dangle,
you trust the ground is there.
Tonight you will lie in bed,
your butt-bones panging,
and think of horse teeth nipping
at the red and white peppermints
your mom unwrapped, put in your palm.
She taught you splay your hand.