by DS Levy

They cling to shepherd’s hooks, these dirty grey teddy bears. Hanging from butcher’s string, they look heavenward—though, of course, it’s just the way they’ve been tied up, the way they dangle there. They’re not really looking at the cottony sky, their sewn-on eyes not really gazing at the Almighty. They share ornamental space with crumpling Mylar balloons, nylon flowers (plastic aren’t allowed), painted rocks, pink and blue windsocks, rainbow-colored spinners. But it’s the teddy bears you notice as you walk these empty cemetery roads, where it’s quiet, and you and the dog can take your time. The dog lifts a leg, pees, his way of consecrating the ground. No breeze, the grey teddy bears are caught in a moment, a still life. Time, the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind and rain and snow have consecrated them to this place. Aeternum.

DS Levy has had work in the Alaska Quarterly Review, Columbia, Carolina Quarterly, Little Fiction, and others. Her chapbook of flash fiction, A Binary Heart, was published by Finishing Line Press.