She is not trained. She is widowed. Three summers ago, her real mate was shot for stealing honey from the magistrate’s kitchen. Now, she dances for stale bread and the echo of a lullaby. Each step is a memory. Each grunt, a whispered hymn.
The dusty gramophone needle scratches to life. A wheezing waltz spills into the sawdust-scented air of the traveling carnival tent. And then, the canvas flap rips open. here cums the bride dancing bear
It lands on her nose. She doesn’t eat it. She holds it, ever so softly, between her teeth. She is not trained