We Once Raced Wild Horses

We Once Raced Wild Horses

Once,

when we were young,

we raced wild horses.

They ran in the sun

and their hair broke brilliant against it's rays.

In speed intense we would seize them.

Wrangle

and tear at their necks

with ropes

and harness.

Blood would break bonds

and we would chase after them again

into the forest.

Darting past trees

and brook

we drove on further,

the trample of hooves

and the silence of their heavy breath

and snorts.

We would follow tracks and marks of blood

on the backs of leaves from their hides.

Their mane sticky,

we would see them,

one licking the other,

the other retreating in pain

only to kick his sympathizer.

And the cracks of twigs

from our feet

would perk their ears

and cause them to almost retreat

in temptation fear.

They sway now,

half expectant,

but isn't that how they always were?

Waiting for capture.

And we'd sneak again,

half watching our feet

but always watching them.

Us reluctant to make a sound

but knowing if we held our breath

we'd only be louder when we gulped for air.

So we heaved shallowly

our feet heavy in the water
sliding them on the moss

rooted on the rocks.

We used to wade so quiet.

And we stood

feet from our prey.

Them licking themselves;

so selfish.

Doing nothing in dense space.

Branches concealing

never revealing

us

or them

but we stood feet apart,

our feet apart- braced

together
about to ambush.

And we roped them again

the twine cutting into fresh wounds

them bucking

legs kicking

knees bashed on tree

and heads bounding into rock

crazed and never feeling anything

but bonds.

You'd come behind me

your horse long gone,

never remembering his bond

only of capture.

And you'd grasp the rope behind me.

your hairs would brush mine

and I'd feel your strength

pulling

yanking on the line

the horse's neck held down.

You would take the reigns

and nudge me forward

telling me to get on

and ride.

Nervous I let go,

never quite sure if you could keep him down,

he would only get stronger as I approached.

You screamed, annoyed,

that your grip was getting looser

and you cussed
you should have rode yourself.

So I ran to the beast

wild with spit and saliva

dripping from his gums

eyes wide and wild

with streams of red racing through them

tired from strain.

I slid on
one leg over the other
too quick and hasty
you let go of the reign
and the animal
lifted me up
clutching at neck and hair
my eye staring into eye
our eyes both wild
embracing
I could feel as though our lashes touched.
And I held the beast for more-
because we don't get these chances often
you and I.

You bucked
and hucked me-
nearly shucked me
but I held on
and you, timid, never held the point.

But on the horse
I'm wild
was wild
and held on
its spit speckling my face
as it hunkered back and stood like man
rearing his feet to the sky
and I swung about his neck
and my soles struck his back
bringing him back down only to go up again
and drop me off below.

Now here is where it goes
fuzzy and unrecognizable.
After the hunt
and the game
we are left with spoils of pride
and fear
beneath the beast.
All pride defeated
as the heart beat of hooves crash around my head.

Dust entering my mouth,
making me dry.
My head moving back and forth
as I curled about myself
trying to dodge
although I remained
petrified-
still-
my limbs rock
and old stone
but soft enough
for the bone to crush
if the dancer above
took precision in their dance
of militia.

And in movement
graceful
and quick
in remembrance
and in haste
the beast made off
trampling around me
hind hooves
clashing
almost mashing me.

After he's gone,
I'm a
lone in the moment.
Huddled beside myself
everything quick
like leaves shaking
as water
precipitate and due
collect and skitter across
in lines and jagged straight cuts.
And the light, forest floor fog
is lifting
but it's dampness is still on my brow
mixing with sweet sweat
that come down my
cheek to my chin
my tongue darting out to catch it
I don't know why.

I still don't know how long it took you
to get to my side.
I don't remember if you coiled the rope,
or if you let it go with the horse;
it whipping the trees
and lashing my face.
Perhaps that's where the crescent
little scar came from,
the one that's just below the cheek bone
but nestled tightly to my ear.
I remember bleeding
but I don't know where.

My eyes were still closed
even though I remember seeing everything.
Perhaps I made it all up,
but in a letter you describe it the same.

I remember you beside me
after opening my eyes
you calmed me,
I nearly kicked you,
my sympathizer,
but got calm only when looking in your eyes.
They didn't bulge like the beasts
nor have the streams of red,
only white
and open
flecks of blue on black.

But we got up,
I helped myself,
and you laughed
which caused me to laugh
and you hugged me
which caused me to embrace harder
it was like holding onto an animal
I'd soon have to let go.

We walked home through the woods.
The fog lifted finally,
and the air humid gaining warmth.

We wondered at first
how we were going to explain my mud splattered back
and perhaps the blood on my shirt.
Perhaps it was the horses,
no,
it was mine,
wasn't it from my crescent scar?
I'll believe it-
perhaps it was from you:
bucking
and hucking
nearly shucking
as we talked about you going off
to make something of yourself.

We walked home silent
breaking the silence
only to talk of travel plans
and visits-
that as we know,
came less and less
through the years.

I remember that year
and I still remember your face
a mashed up version
of all the versions of you
over time.
I see you sometimes.
Once I just let you pass.
And I ache at times at your sight.

But I remember your name
and I remember the time
we raced wild horses
and won.

-Matthew Koutzun