Andromeda Came to the Silver River

By ANGIE MACRI

as a girl approaches a mirror,
not yet a queen, and maybe never,
seeing in the water
no man’s voice to answer,
to say you are better
than another.
Over her shoulder, her mother
formed a constellation,
a knee, a hand, and breast perfect
as stars. The girl stared in the moving water
at dreams of a woman’s figure:
god’s follower or king’s mother
or a judge become prophet in a war.
What wonder when her mother sang verses
of the woman who used a hammer
to put a tent spike through the enemy’s temple
after filling him with milk
when he was weary: turn in, my lord, turn
in to me; fear
not. And she went softly.
The girl watched her mother reflected behind her,
long before and also after
the monster was sent to find her.
She leaned closer to the river
to better see the queen behind her,
her breath a galaxy on the river’s glass surface,
awake, awake, awake, awake.

Angie Macri is the author of Underwater Panther, winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize, and Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past. Her recent work appears in The Journal, Quiddity, andThe Southern Review. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs. Find her online at angiemacri.wordpress.com.

[Purchase Issue 17 here]

Griffin LessellAndromeda Came to the Silver River

Related Posts

Campus Aerial

Honoring Amherst Writers

For Amherst College's fourth annual LitFest, The Common put together a Literary Landmarks tour of Amherst College, highlighting locations on campus with special connections to literary figures affiliated with the college, from Robert Frost to Lauren Groff. Building on that effort, we've compiled a list of pieces published in The Common that were written either by or about Amherst professors, alums, and even current students.

We Shall Be a Country with No History

AATISH TASEER
It was black American writing, and the black American experience more generally, that first alerted me to the presence of history in America. It made the TV-prepared reality I inhabited less flat; it was my first intimation of something tragic and complex... 

suburb

What My Father Said

DIANA BABINEAU
You go where you belong, my father says to me, / ten years old, listening at bedtime to his story / about how he once was mugged in Brooklyn / in 1974, a small, polite Canadian / trying to buy gas and a Coke. Like here, he meant, / this neighborhood where crime is low...