The Horses
The primary red striped onto the black, the dye
spotting the mirror and sink with
a kind of gore, a sulfur that is in the air for days:
you are twenty-two and this means
even folly has its own exacting nature. The hair
turned red, as easily as last month’s
blue; the puggish, miniature barbell pierced into
a nipple. At the club I watch you on top
of the speaker, tearing the shirt your brother gave
you, the music a murderous brightness
in the black room. Now you want it all off, down
to clear scalp. Your head in foam,
you ask me to do the places you can’t properly
reach: the neck’s mossy hairs, the back’s
escarpment, an edge of bone the razor nicks
to small blood, tasting like peppermint
and metal on my tongue. In the used-bookstore
this afternoon, in the master’s book of
drawings, pencil sketches of the heads of horses,
whose long nostrils had been slit open
as custom demanded. The Icelanders, Mongols,
and Italians finding a measurable
efficiency in what they could see: the horses, even
in their speed, as though not breathing.
***
Hi Friends,
Today’s poem is from Rick Barot‘s new collection Want (2008).
The drawing referenced in the last two stanzas is probably “The Slashed Nostrils of Horses” by the Italian artist Antonio Pisanello, part of the Louvre collection. In the Early Reniassance period, horse racing was big business, and in some cultures horse racers believed that slitting the nostrils allowed a horse to take in more air, making it faster.
A visually memorable tidbit of history. But then again, “The Horses” isn’t really about the horses. Why do you think Barot chose this title?
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. You can always learn more about National Poetry Month or sign up for a more official-like poem-a-day list at www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets.
Best,
Ellen
Poet Rick Barot was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 19, 2007.