She believed that the heavens cut
precisely in half; that the celestial
sphere opened neatly along its seam
like a plastic children’s globe–that
we occupy only the empty hollow.
She believed that the bottom filled
with a sea around Andromeda–
an eternal punishment bred in
the deepest part of the universe–
the top left dry so that Cassiopeia
may freely witness the havoc she wrought.
She believed him when he proclaimed her
the most beautiful; when he denounced
the other’s messages and memories;
when he whispered a new story
for her to grasp– a story that glimmered.
She believed in fruit made of gold
trapped in dragon’s coils, wickedly
tantalizing in its gilded skin, worth
prideful kingdoms, audacious victories,
and the devastating competition– the
raging love– of two men. She believed in
pain and magic, loveliness and treachery,
as faithfully as she believed in the power
of the grief felt by a betrayed woman,
star-sculpted or otherwise.
She believed these things silently,
and only said aloud (to the rubbed-raw photo
in her hand and the winking sky above)
that belief cuts like fractured crystals:
with a beautiful shine.