Dinner at Horses
A hologram of a horse galloping makes me anxious.It can’t stop going nowhere.How can I walk past it? We are late,led through the sexesto a quiet courtyard where I see a babycarriage, not the baby.Nobody cries for me at Horses.We areOn my left, a man rubs his hands between his knees.On my right, a man tells a womanevery five years something almost kills him,a metaphor sometimes,once a heart attack, often his own unfaithfulness.She hums in understanding,which seems to heat him like a lamp.Why does her acceptance of himmake me lonely? More than you I blamethe moon behind your head.More than you nothing is enough for me.More than crying you hand meno napkin. You say the way I look at youis all disgust now.I say you never look at me at all.The server places butter downin the shape of a horsehead. I melt the horses.On all the tables horseheads melting,our not speaking, my eyes running nowhere.You leave the table and come back,slicing the air between us. Your handrests there. I shake it.The valet slips our tip into his pocket.As we drive you say More than before,we exist after Horses. After Horseswe share the way for years we haven’t.We say life, in spite of us, led here. We talkof trying, bad timing, our kids,their constant stretching bodies of forgiveness.After Horses we list ways we’ve changed,offer the last moments we felt sure. We areso clean with grief,by the time we reach our house it is not ours.
