Her stride was a bursting

heart. Nine good years

of thirst she gave me.

She taught me to love

marble—the way her heels

could make it click.

There was a green river

miles from our wooden house.

It’s where we went

to chug wine and make promises.

We had sports cars and scarves.

We made love barbarically

with the television off.

Somehow the cats slept

through her snoring.

Our favorite thing

was in winter: bombarding

our wide black driveway

with every icicle we could reach

from the deck. How loudly

how emphatically we grunted

in rapid alternation,

striking free those glassy

spikes of ice with our shovels.