Ballerina on a Horse, Midway, 1915

Something in common with soldiers, she.

Whether or not she screwed them in the tent, she knows

the value of practice, poise, a straight leg, a cynical eye.

Stoutish lady clutching at girlhood, pointed toes, tight ribbons,

selling hard a face of chalk and honey. Her kohl-rimmed eyes look

punched by an expert small fist. Mouth red and stiff

as the furrows and mounds of her manufactured hair. Poof

of feathers—time for a little furtive dusting—one arm

held over her head, as she’s seen

creditable dancers do. The other hand

holds the small sweet whip, more for a wink

to nervous watching men than for this sturdy horse

bulged with failure and age. Veined and pasted white,

as if her face, his hide endured the same touch-ups, afternoon

and evening. Rhinestones on the bridle. This pony

no cousin of the white horse divers, no magnificence

of falling. Just the swish

and sigh of synonymous days.

Together they are the dream of women and horses

boiled down to a lumpen shimmer of flesh.

Both bear the same dark eyes, stoic, turned away.