You brought up the moon, so I opened my front door into the perfect arithmetic of space. The moon was round, white, gray-speckled like a wild egg, but gigantic and there. Its light was a strong whisper in the night’s navy scream. It lit the Yellow Jessamine to dull the blood pain. It burned the Manchineel, so we went blind. I put my hand to my side of the door, and I was aware of the old black screen layered between my glass panel and the one that belonged to the woods. I wished I had lifted the window more last summer in the night, to note moths on the porchlight and know of fireflies—to be blinded by the moon’s sweet damage once more. Tarot and stars predetermine it, or present the truth, threadbare. They say that Scorpio does not forgive. It grows instead, poisons poured from antique decanters onto roots that spread below and seep upward as far as trees decide.
Jessica Wiseman Lawrence studied creative writing at Longwood University. You can find her recent work upcoming or published in Origins, Chicago Literati, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and The Feminine Divine‘s upcoming Anthology of Female Voices, along with many others. One of her poems has recently earned a Best of the Net nomination. She lives in rural central Virginia, where she is an office manager by day.