Equestrienne
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"Laika" was the name of the dog that rode the Soviet Sputnik 2 mission into space in 1957, and died because she overheated a few hours into the mission.
She appeared beside me
before I could climb on
the shiny palomino—
barefoot, bright-eyed,
with a plan already forming
behind her charming grin,
so naturally I let her
canter first and then I’d take the reins.
She rode it with unstudied grace
and I was mesmerized.
We talked of stars and silver ships,
of other worlds and Laika—
the brave little dog
who never came home—
but must have found a garden—
on another planet—
with open fields and softer skies.
She rocked on, lost in orbit—
hair lifting with each gallop,
the world beyond the saddle
fading into breeze and stardust
as time trotted on unnoticed.
And when the rocking slowed to stillness,
she hopped down easy as a sigh,
thanked me with a quick bright smile,
and gaily skipped away—
off to find new wonders waiting
hid in the shimmer of the day.
I stood there, nickel spent,
half-laughing at my luck—
had I just been bamboozled
by a spacefaring femme fatale?
Perhaps.
But I’d talked with a girl
who knew the stars by name,
and I decided
that was worth the ride.
Copyright © Roxanne Andorfer | Year Posted 2025
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