Not a horse in Yorktown matched your looks

that day in October, not even Lafayette's.

 

And even you understood humiliation

blanketing the face of Cornwallis,

you, who served the wooden-toothed man,

 

the honest slave-owner, the one who,

two hundred twenty-six years later,

can do no wrong.

 

Do you remember any of his white lies?

 

 

 

It is as if you welcomed that bullet

as part of your job description.

I cannot think of Sam Houston

without picturing him crawling

out from under you.

 

Now what we need to know:

were you really white, or simply grey

like everyone remembers?

 

 

 

Before Lee took notice of your tall, iron frame,

your tail's impressive swoosh,

you were known as Jeff Davis and Greenbrier.

When he saw the determined rise and crash

of your grey mane in a gallop,

he gave you your lasting name.

 

If you've noticed,

do you feel guilty about being better fed

than the common soldiers?

 

 

How does it feel to have your bones retrieved

from the earth so someone can earn a nickel

each time someone else wants to see?

 

 

 

On the farm they called you Old Fancy

for letting yourself out of the stable

and lifting the latches to all the other stalls

and setting your brethren free.

 

At Chancellorsville, when Stonewall fell,

did he pull your dumpy body down

with him?  

 

After being captured and recaptured

several times, were your loyalties confused?

 

Does your hide mind being mounted

at the VMI Museum forever?

 

Will you ever learn to buckle?

 

 

 

Did you take joy from the sight

of scorched farmlands, smoldering cities,

skinny babies, or the smell of amputated

arms and legs rotting in a wagon?

 

Was Sherman as serious as the sideburns suggest?

Did he take offense when someone left

out the Tecumseh?

 

Is speed really everything?

 

 

 

Comanche, you fought hard. Comanche, you tried.

You were a good soldier, so hold your head up high.

For even the greatest sometimes must fall,

Comanche, the brave horse, you gave your all.

--from Johnny Horton's "Comanche"

 

How can we know if you gave your all?

Perhaps you were just one of the lucky horses

that slipped away before a soldier could

send a bullet through your temple

and hide behind your lumpy corpse.

 

They say you stand patiently in your glass case

in Kansas.  Do they not see the bit clenched

between your teeth, or when they're alone

in the afternoon, studying themselves in the glass,

do they not hear the tinge in your jaw,

the faint sound of chomping?

 

Do you still cringe at the sound of "Gary Owen?"

 

 

 

No one said Kettle Hill would be a cakewalk,

but how often does a cavalry unit lead a charge,

dismounted, but with their commander,

the future president, still on his horse?

At the beckoning of Teddy, who wouldn't tire out?

 

Are your nightmares filled with never-ending

lengths of coiled barbed wire?

 

Do you regret living

through combat?

 

 

 

"In World War I, 6 million horses served as cavalry mounts or draft animals for the American forces in Europe.  Nearly all of them were killed.  The American Expeditionary Force brought with them an additional 182,000 horses to the war zones.  Of these valiant battle chargers, only 200 came back home to the United States." --from Horse Miracles

 

Looking back at your thirty six years,

do you miss the rush of combat,

the whiz of bullets, the satisfactory

feeling at the end of the day

when Pershing would feed you

and pat your neck, knowing you

were the reason he came home?

 

Or do you prefer the days,

parading through cities,

when children's eyes would lift

in anticipation as you

maneuvered gracefully

through the cobblestone streets?

 

Do you feel special?