by Michelle Valois
In my moon garden I planted you a sun, last fall, beside the grave
of my old dog, near the clothesline where you hang our laundry
on warm summer days. Before the sun sprouted, the children
decorated rocks to mark the place where night ended and day began.
Using colored chalk, they drew rainbows that looked like apples—
red, yellow, and green apples, deformed but vibrant.
Once the sun began to bloom, we tried to hide it whenever you walked
out back with your heavy basket of wet clothes. We didn’t want you
to see the bloom until it had fully flowered. When we finally picked it,
we placed it in an old milk bottle. Once the stem was submerged
in water, all light went out and a hissing fog rose from the thick glass
and covered everything.
We couldn’t see, then, so we felt for each other in the shadows,
while a thousand moons shot forth from the garden in the backyard
beside the grave of my old dog.
Michelle Valois lives in Western Massachusetts with her partner and
three children. She teaches at a community college. Her writing has
appeared or is forthcoming in TriQuarterly, Brevity, Fourth Genre,
2River View, Pank, Florida Review, North American Review, and
others. She blogs at Read Me Like a Book.
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 6, Number 1
Copyright © 2011
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors