Eight Belles
They say that fillies give too much
of themselves, don’t know when
to stop, will run to would-be sweet freedom, to
ruin under the wide skies.
Since 1875, only forty female horses
have raced in the Kentucky Derby.
The first to win was called “Regret.”
Her owner had wanted a boy.
Legs going everywhere,
Eight Belles’s trainer said.
She always stumbled when pulling up.
We call it
horsepower. We call it love,
this bull heart gone wild on
legs as dainty as the toothpick furniture
in a dollhouse.
Yes, horses love to run. I’ve walked up
to a herd of fillies in a field
and they bolted off, ran round me
as if mocking the idea of tame,
before one of them came close, let me
touch her flank, shuddered
under my hand.
She was dark as shadow
or as night or whatever else girls
fright from in the alleyway,
the one white star on her forehead
like Joan of Arc’s meteor, stupid brave.
The game filly’s trying to run him down,
the announcer cried, but Big Brown’s
a superstar, he’s clear for the win—
When she folded into the sand,
it looked like she was hinged. It looked
like she had been built that way.
It looked like her shadow
kept lunging forward
as her body flattened
into its own form.