Reflection in an Equine Eye

A delicate bay mare with flaxen mane,
named Gingersnap. A dappled gray gelding,
called Captain Jack, so wide that in mounting
I’d pull muscles in my groin, gasp with pain.
But Captain Jack was easy, the calmest horse
you’d ever find, dull-eyed and temperate.
Not so Gingersnap, spicier and desperate
to nip the haunches just ahead—or worse.

And that’s how mild Jack, old Cap’n, came near
to trampling me, so small my knees could find
no purchase, could not clamp me to his back
when the mare’s teeth pinched his flesh—he reared.
Down his left I slid, belly up, not minding
reins in hand or high hooves’ impending thwack.