A moth is caught in the car. It flutters trying to escape through the back window, bangs uselessly against the glass. I open all of the doors, even the hatchback. Still it flounders, can't figure its way out, wings dull brown on the outside, bright orange underneath.

all day long
wearing my sweater
inside out

A year has passed since my sister-in-law was charged with my brother's murder. Between now and then, court appearances, bail hearings, a flurry of news reports, but for the most part, the days pass in an unsettling hum of normalcy.

needle stuck
in the trough of the LP
of the LP of the LP

Published in Gnarled Oak, Spring 2016

© Marianne Paul 2011