by Marissa Ahmadkhani
Orpheus plays his lyre and, like Cerberus, I am tricked to sleep, left on the cold ground with a false sense of security. In dreams, I relive that night again and again: you in front of the window, warm candlelight bouncing off bare walls, the glasses of wine neither of us needed. There was yelling that I can’t remember now. Or maybe I just don’t want to. But I always see your angry hands, their shadows made big by the light. Like Orpheus, I looked back, felt the winter air creep in through the single-pane window. You were Eurydice, your face beginning to fade.
Marissa Ahmadkhani’s writing has appeared in dozens of publications, including poets.org, which awarded her the Academy of American Poets Prize in 2015, 2017, and 2022. Currently, she teaches composition at the university-level and serves as Assistant Editor of The West Review.
Melissa Goodnight’s writing and photography have appeared in Mud Season Review, Litro, and Burningword among others. She has work forthcoming in Moon City Review. She has degrees from Missouri State and the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She holds an MFA from Mississippi University for Women and lives in Atlanta.