21 January 2010 | Vol. 9, No. 4

The Race

by SAARA MYRENE RAAPPANA

You're a trigger finger dug into the starting gun,

the smack as it fires, the tense stroke of hooves

pressing into a fresh track. You're the curiosity

of a flashbulb nibbling air, tricky camera lens

grabbing a mane as it quivers back. I'm a rising

overture of thighs. I'm dirt exploding midair

—sand fireworks. I'm the impulse to grab hold:

the jockey's knees clenching as he rocks above

the heaving saddle. You're the bit I can't keep

from tasting, and I, the clench of jaws, willing

to split in two for the shiver of collision, tooth

on tooth. Darling, you're a wager: the whole wad

riding on one last leap, but then you're abrupt:

an ankle's vomity pop. And I'm the entire crowd

grunting to its feet. You're one blossoming

moment of unstoppable collapse: the bracing

limbs, the beveling slide, the shriek of submission

to gravity, a hard landing. From the stands, I'm

a hush: hand to mouth. I'm needles of heat, a gut

sinking over a lost life savings. You're someone

else's carnation wreath, red as a bitemark necklace.