The Races
Santa Anita’s
crushing bets,
cracking backs—
bone
underfoot
blank fire—kickback—panic
our wildness
clutches the race card.
Nearly 10
horses
a week on
average died
After hoof,
soot, utility
caked
a bulb dims over the anointed
in the waste plant
an unassuming man
avoiding razed eyes
skins the bodies.
at American
racetracks
in 2018…*
In the corner
a mare furrows
pain killer &
a shot of memory
tracks of tripwire
congeal screams
lacing her ponytail.
What does our man bring home?
Is he paid
in fettered blinders?
Does he read about knights,
unmanned horses
before brushing his daughters’
manes?
The youngest mirrors his
auburn hue,
a hot streak of crimson.
*—The New York Times