Leslie Walker Trahan

Cassiopeia

That was the day we found a cat wedged in the engine, its fur matted, the kittens cold as river

stones. Jake bounded from the house, swearing over the snap of the screen door he’d never

return. I rode my bike along the cornfield, my hands slapping the stalks. When I came home,

Mom was on the porch with a bottle of champagne. She poked one stick-straight finger at the

sky. “Cassiopeia,” she said, raising a glass to her lips.

Rob Shapiro