Lyn Lifshin

  Among Lyn Lifshin’s forthcoming books: THE LICORICE DAUGHTER: MYYEAR WITH RUFFIAN,Texas Review Press and ANOTHER WOMAN WHO LOOKS LIKE ME. She has over 100 books & edited 4 anthologies. Her website:

  Her last two Black Sparrow books, COLD COMFORT and BEFORE IT’S LIGHT won Paterson Review Awards and Black Sparrow at David Godine will publish ANOTHER WOMAN WHO LOOKS LIKE ME.

  

  On April 17, 1972, at ten minutes to ten in the late evening, three days late, the only time she would be, Ruffian was born at Claiborne Farm in Paris, Kentucky. She was born with a star on her forehead, a sign of what she would become: the fastest filly, maybe the greatest horse of all time. From her record breaking maiden race, she left behind the best fillies and mares in races she ran and won almost effortlessly as she won stakes and broke records. She was ahead at every point of call. Ruffian was strikingly beautiful, more like his Black Stallion the writer Walter Farley said than any colt he'd seen, the image of The Black Beauty. An undefeated winner of lightning fast speed, Ruffian was Champion Juvenile filly of 1974. She was never headed, flew to breathtaking, stunning victories with a stride like no other horse, almost ghostly. Invincible until just after her Triple Crown win for fillies it seemed Ruffian didn't know how to lose. Then, in a tragic, misguided match race with the winner of the year's Kentucky Derby, the colt Foolish Pleasure, she broke down, even then in the lead by nearly a length. Even on three legs, thrusting her broken foreleg into the ground over and over, she could not easily be pulled up.

  No one who saw her can forget her. Ruffian was rare, perfect, spectacular, miraculous, bright and she is buried where no other horse has been buried, where she ran her first and last race at the infield at Belmont under the NYRA flag pole, her nose pointing, as it always did, toward the finish line.

 

HORSES IN THE SNOW

 if you are still, you

can hear ice crystals

move like beads

in blackness, before

you see them stand.

Under a snow maple

their legs lift in the

ballet step, pas de

chevalle, shake the

cold off, huddling

like children or the

memory of children,

shapes dark as

the space snow angels

leave, their hooves

an angel's tiara.

Light glosses the

grey as steam from

the horses rises

BRIGHT APRIL OF BIRTH

3 days past her due date,

milk dripping from

Shenanigan's nipples.

Her coat is still dry

in the morning as she

eats as usual. Then, by

night, she starts packing

the breeding stall,

hay piled, her coat

damp and sweaty. May-

be there was a bright

moon, azaleas and

columbine. Suddenly

she begins rearranging

the straw with her

front foot, turning

and rearranging a

different pile till she

lies down, sighs.

Stars on her grey

flanks. When she

tries to get to her feet

she can't, rolls over,

her breath wild.

The foaling man

talks softly, shiny

instruments glisten.

Then her eyes open

in pain, surprise as two

small hoofs press thru,

then Ruffian's muzzle,

bony nose and finally

drenched in sweat

but calm, confident,

Shenanigans shudders

thru several hug

contractions and

Ruffian is nestled in

the thick hay

WITH STARLIGHT STILL ON THE POND LIKE SILVER

the fillies' and mares'

heads curl back. A

whinny at one end

of the barn travels

to the other. The

horses want to hang

on to what is familiar.

But as stars go off.

into cobalt sleep, the

men come to pull

Ruffian to the van on

her way to a new

life where she will

break records that

go back to the Civil

War to become a

horse that seems to

dance on water

WEANING DAY

 hinges creek on the gate.

Someone is coming too

early. Something is

unlatching the every

day, the warmth of their

mare, closeness of

her withers. Later, only

the road full of leaves

and stones. Something

is wrong. Their

mares can't save them.

Slats in the van. Colors

unseen in their six

months. Dust floats up

as if to blur everything

that was ordinary,

comforting. How could

the foals know, whinny-

ing and stamping, that

this happens every

year. Or that in the

new barn with only the

moon and stars for

company, in days they

will forget their mothers

IT WAS HER STRIDE, LONG, ALMOST DREAM LIKE, FLOATING

 riders with a sense of

pace were fooled.

She was like a dancer

with ballon, hanging

in the air, suspended.

If you were on her,

you thought the

clockers were wrong.

Sometimes it seemed

she wasn't running,

never came back

winded. Those long

legs seemed too

long for a real horse.

Someone said it

was as if she hung

there and the ground

rushed under her