Photo by Samantha Kennedy on Unsplash
by Chrissy Stegman
The stars look away, abashed, while the lawyer who files on the moon’s behalf feels his remorse grow antlers, and everyone pretends not to notice. He decides to move away to an old farmhouse that doesn’t exist on any known map. He begins constructing miniature versions of himself, each one placed into the corners of its rooms. His loneliness becomes a river that only thinks about the people who might drown in it. When the moon went bankrupt, his mother died, and he inherited her lighthouse. Even though there is no longer a tide, and the sea around it is dry, the light still sweeps for something.
Chrissy Stegman is a poet/writer/chipmunk from Baltimore, Maryland. Recent work appears in Jake, UCity Review, Gone Lawn, Gargoyle Magazine, Stone Circle Review, Fictive Dream, Inkfish, The Voidspace, and BULL. She is a BoTN and Pushcart Prize nominee.
