I never saw Ruffian race. That’s my
father’s memory. But my father is
dead. He can’t remember anything. Now
I try to get back to the horse any
way I can. Once, I watched a video
where her trainer led her in circles, played
it on a loop. It became a circle
inside a circle. A galaxy. Which,
in Greek means circle that is milky. One
year, as a birthday present, my husband
gave me a pin from Ruffian’s last race.
I keep it in my closet—the horse’s
face inside a circle inside a bag
inside a shoebox inside a poem.