August at the racetrack is ostensibly

about the hot flanks of stallions chasing

wild fillies around the human desire

to get something for nothing.

Ivan watched me race

back and forth to the finish line,

balancing cocktails on a tray to serve

the richest men in the world.

In his country, he had been educated

to engineer tall buildings. In this country,

he exercised horses and worked in the kitchen.

He saw me for what I was: a pretty bad girl. 

After dark we met for a drink in a dark-

paneled bar. We spoke in his tongue about

his woman and son. Then he put his mouth

on my mouth, and I pushed him away.

At night, I drowned in the moonlight of youth.

In the morning, I returned to the throng.

Old men slapped my ass and pinned me

to the wall, while the bugle blew nine times a day.

The horses ran laps as I eyed

blood diamonds and licked

coins from the floorboards, learning

one by one the old superstitions:

Never bet for or against a red mare.

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