The Moon, the River, and the Lyre by Spencer Nitkey

The moon, the river, and the lyre sang together. The moon sang with light, low and yellow. The river sang with water against stone, bank, and skin. The lyre sang because Cassiopeia played it. So many boys had died at war recently that Cassiopeia could hardly believe the Aegean and all its estuaries did not lap with red waves.

Her husband, king and all that, sent many of the dead boys to their deaths. He brought many alive back home, too, which he often said with a swell of pride. Cassiopeia sang with the lyre because her sadnesses roiled in a place beyond language.

Dead boys bloodied the ocean, and her daughter, traded by her husband for a handshake, bloodied her heart. Some boy who her husband brought back from war had shaken his hand and had left on the un-red sea with her daughter. Her daughter had spent her days singing at the waves from a stone by the palace that overlooked the ocean.

“He’s a hero, that one,” her husband said. “It will be good for her to leave that stone and see the wide world with a man forged by battle.”

Cassiopeia remembered her husband before he was forged. He read poetry and pinched his nose at the taste of grapefruit, and in the morning, the sun would dance across the blonde stumble of his sleeping cheek. He would blink one eye open and run his plow-rough fingers across the nape of her neck. He’d whisper whatever the first, clear thought that passed through his mind was. Somedays he spoke of her beauty. Somedays he spoke of a fish he’d speared in the river, or an old man who’d told a lewd joke, or the rotting fruit he smelled in the air.

Cassiopeia remembered her husband before he was forged. He read poetry and pinched his nose at the taste of grapefruit, and in the morning, the sun would dance across the blonde stumble of his sleeping cheek. He would blink one eye open and run his plow-rough fingers across the nape of her neck. He’d whisper whatever the first, clear thought that passed through his mind was. Somedays he spoke of her beauty. Somedays he spoke of a fish he’d speared in the river, or an old man who’d told a lewd joke, or the rotting fruit he smelled in the air.

Then many wars and battles later, he traded away her daughter for a handshake. He told her he’d done this with a smile, so she hit him. He stumbled back, more from shock than force, and hit his head against a column. He stumbled to his knees, touched the back of his head, and brought red fingers back. His eyes fluttered then closed. Cassiopeia took his unconscious body by the feet. She dragged him to the flowing river and filled his pockets with stones. She rolled him into the river. Her husband, king and all that, sank and vanished into the blue water.

The moon, the river, and the lyre sang together. The moon sang with light. The river sang with her drowning husband. The lyre sang with Cassiopeia’s sadness and anger, neither of which had abated one bit.