And Orpheus, leading his love
from the cold caves of death,
might understand the way my grandmother
cut credit card confetti
so no one could steal her identity.
How can I explain the place where she lived?
The ice cream shop is cash-only,
dandelions in the sidewalks,
the house missing burgundy shutters
cries for symmetry.
Down the road a church sign tells us,
“Sorrow looks back.”
Did you ever have anything to be nostalgic about?
When you see the moon in the day
its faded face becomes a cloud.
On a bare afternoon glancing
out a car window through scars of power lines
I see the moon, and I miss the moon.
Was it on purpose?
Maybe it was like a credit card,
one with your name that you never ordered
sliced into vertical strips,
and those cut horizontal and batches
of slivers thrown into the garbage.
Maybe her face was the moon during the day
and each time I glanced, she faded. I drove farther.
Was it to hurt her?
My pillows are still stained with the crying,
my back would ache with it.
Rich poison for a starving martyr.
I do not know if she was hurt when I looked back,
because I no longer recognized the face.
C. Beston grew up on the edge of the woods in Delaware and currently pursues writing and filmmaking in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has been featured in publications like X-R-A-Y, Smokelong Quarterly, and Okay Donkey. More at cbestonwork.com.