A Famous Female Race Horse

Our marriage is given to studying different stars, as if whole swathes of the sky were closed to the other, yet our togetherness is not without direction. The river froze, the ice patterned in low ripples, each crowding the next, which reminded us that death was inevitable but not permanent. It was bitterly cold - everyone agreed about this - yet somehow the east-facing icicles melted through the long night. Who haunts the ghosts, who shoes the cobbler's daughter? Our wedding was a thousand years of learning a certain Greek dance, fifty years of Irish wakes, and seven days grooming a famous female race horse. We fuck a lot in the old pantry where it's always warm and the only window is painted shut. Look at me scraping pennies off the trolley rails. Look at you eating bacon ends and cabbage in the dark.