Volume 16:1, Winter 2015
By the dirt shoulder, cows hum to themselves and snack
on the grass, hefty foghorns dressed in hides.
From the trunk of my car, the boy points, near dog-eyed
Sirius: Orion. Of course. I skim the milky black
until I find the jagged M of Cassiopeia stabbing
against the cosmos. How did the cliffs feel against
Andromedas wrists? The rear window, icy,
presses November chill against my waist, the gap
of sweater and jeans. Cassies jeweled crown, proud trap
of a mother, is a spike of teeth. Down here, gravity winds
us to the car with spun ropes. The heavens confine
our mothers and gods, those monsters all points on a map.
The boys arm presses my side, finds my strong spine,
my rippled skin. My upturned face searches for the divine.
Diana Smith Bolton is the founding editor of District Lit. Her work has recently appeared in Lines + Stars, Jet Fuel Review, and Punchnel's. She lives in Northern Virginia.