Blue Mountain Arts Poetry Contest

For Women Who Ride Horses
by Judy Toomey

Eleventh Contest
third Place

There are long-necked bottles on 
the coffee table, along with the boots of 
three cowgirls who sprawl 
on the couch, eyes fixed 
on the TV screen, where a woman 
twirls a horse in tight circles, 
first clockwise, then counter- 
clockwise, precise, captured 
in the arena's murky light. 
"It takes a year to train a good 
reining horse," Terri announces 
to no one in particular, 
and tips her head back, 
draining a bottle.

I think in terms of what a year means 
to a colt or a child, 
or a woman who has spent 33 
trying to find what is hers to keep. 
The black mare I rode all morning 
was borrowed, like the acres of 
goldenrod in bloom 
beneath the sky's blue sail, 
like my bones, this skin 
the sun bakes to golden.

Melissa is singing to Rachel's 
daughter, who is pulling herself up 
on the arm of the couch. Soon 
she will scramble to her feet 
like a filly, run across the pasture, 
ponytail flying. She will grow 
into a woman who rides horses, who knows 
how and when to use spurs. Now 
Melissa picks her up, 
crooning “little woman” over 
and over, spinning in dizzying 
circles. The baby is laughing, 
the women are laughing, 
I am laughing as if 
for this golden moment, 
I own my very life.