A Poem in Parts by Jacqueline Markowski

The Strength of Horses
Part I

….She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection….

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses.

--Joy Harjo (She Had Some Horses)

That year in biology I was learning

frogs, dissecting their life. Learning

about their mating, amplexus. I

equated this with sex; instinctual, natural,

the female knowing her duty, suppressing

the screams. Nothing taken, nothing

broken. I gave you what had already been

taken. I wished it had been you who had

reached that place first. My consolation:

I wasn’t terrified with you, just nervous,

but you were gentle, concerned.

That was two decades ago—I can still remember

saying goodbye to your cerulean

eyes, so clear my reflection reached out

to me from somewhere deep within

your compassion, your invisible embrace.

I never trusted what shown back at me;

I was too flawed—holding onto

ancient tragedy. Tangled in my memories

of that first day, my awkwardness stands taller

than pain, brighter than the scabs I’ve picked

for years. Your gentle hands guiding me, your

long artist fingers against my pale vernal skin.

I held on to the barbed wire that circled

your long, thin arm half expecting to pull back

a sliced open thumb, a fresh cut. Instead I found

I had steadied myself. I didn’t feel the fear

I had anticipated, had reasoned would be

worth it. My only worry was that

after the epochal moment, I would begin

counting the hours, minutes, memories until I had to

say it, the inevitable goodbye that would punctuate

our twice a month visits. In two weeks

we would have our second encounter. Your bus came

in at 11:45. It was just after midnight

at the reservoir, where all the punk kids came

to drink cheap wine. It was quiet and still,

even the dirt road we’d taken

from the bus station was desolate. You covered me

with your long, lean body. You asked if I was

scared. I said no. I hadn’t yet realized

I had always been scared, had spent my childhood

running, chasing after the dangling pair of scissors.

The Strength of Horses

Part II

…She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making….

--Joy Harjo (She Had Some Horses)

Two days later my mother drove us to the bus

station. She liked you, despite the tattoos.

She sat silently in the car, watching through

the windshield as I held onto you, begging

the God I didn’t believe in to nail us

down into that moment. She held me

while I cried watching the bus pull away

from the curb. She made friends with me

on the drive home. I began to trust

her, told her I thought I might love

you. She laughed until she saw

my face. With a softened voice she told me

that she was jaded, that love might still be real

for a someone like me, someone

at my age. Those words stung,

showed my naiveté. I was naked; I knew

I better get used to goodbyes. So I swam

into the murky, dislodged portion

of my sixteenth year. The snake slithered

to the salty surface: for the first time

my mania showed itself in plain sight.

I was clouded and shrouded and getting used

to goodbyes. I let you go. If I hurt

you, you didn’t show me—to this day

I am grateful. Your empathy covered me

like a stained blanket I threw away

years ago, like a dress I had outgrown.

I sought eyes without reflection,

landing quickly in the arms of the first of many

vampires who fed off me, off the ego-less,

needy mass I was. I hardly remember any of them,

they had no distinction,

no artistic tendencies,

just rusty barbed wire, the kind that would

slice you, cut open your flesh when you tried

to steady yourself. No cause

and even less effect on anything

but circumstance. Those memories

are different, empty. They do not pull

me back. They do not echo.

The Strength of Horses

Part III

…She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff…. 

           

…She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades….

--Joy Harjo (She Had Some Horses)

One day you called, five years had passed—

a lifetime … we were still young. I was still

fucked up, still avoiding provocation. We met

for a drink. When you spoke, you became

irritated when I wouldn’t make eye contact.

I was still afraid of my reflection, certain I’d see a monster

as you tried to know me, to show me. You knew

I was in there. But when I felt you prying

off the mask I had glued on tight I lashed out,

accidentally showed you the pieces of me I reserved

for solitude. Finally we sat in your grandmother’s driveway,

my small car idling in the dark night. I tried

to mirror your honesty. My thoughts swirling,

confusing what was true with what I’d wished

was true; I let rain down years of tears.

If only I had said less, thought more,

been cognizant of who I was

really angry with. Maybe then I

would have heard what you were

saying. Self-absorbed, I spent the exchange

formulating my attack. I can’t remember

what you told me of your life—

where your education was taking you,

where you wanted to go. All I

heard was the performance of a false-self

and critical conjecture. From there I abandoned

reason, didn’t let myself acknowledge this:

You were the horse I dismounted too early,

there was a blanket underneath the saddle.

The Strength of Horses

Part IV

….She had horses who called themselves, "horse."
She had horses who called themselves, "spirit." and kept their voices secret and to themselves.

She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names….

….She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses….

--Joy Harjo (She Had Some Horses)

I’ve thought about you every year

on Groundhog Day, wondering if

I’d ever see your shadow.

This year I looked for you.

This year I found you.

This year holds six more weeks of spring.

I take comfort— your shadow is still

yours. We’ve grown up, both had children

and our fair share of life experience. Your home

is a blue ocean away. But your shadow is with me,

I carry it like a blanket. I keep it in a jewelry box

next to my children’s teeth. I reference it like

an anthology.

Finally I recognize the girl

in the reflection. She is also a horse

who was set free too soon; but she has

found her own shadow, it comforts her

like a blanket, it tells her that

love doesn’t have to hurt, that

a cracked little girl can be glued back

together, that horses are beautiful

creatures.

Jacqueline Markowski is a writer of poetry and short stories. She lives in Charlotte, NC where she divides her time between writing and being a homeschooling mother. Her poetry has appeared in Chronogram Magazine, Cochlea/The Neovictorian and Permafrost Literary Journal. She was awarded first place in poetry during the 2006 Sandhills Writers Conference. She is currently working on a compilation of short stories but who’s she kidding- she’ll never finish.