Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Murder on Highway 50
Perhaps it was because I didn't see
that underneath the car in front of me
was not an engine carrying passengers,
but more a home of wandering travelers—
or maybe you'd jumped through the window's gap,
the space between the landscapes' rolling map
as if you'd craved a place to roam beyond
then took a leap of faith, but you were conned.
Instead of landing in a wonderland
some quarry full of mice at your command
or bird-filled trees to climb with feline zeal
your destiny put me behind the wheel.
You looked at me; I felt a bump and cried.
Dear cat, I am the reason that you died.
Dear cat, I am the reason that you died,
and though I've said I'm sorry and have tried
to find a way to lessen all the guilt
your image always finds me when the quilt
for sleep is covering my head; the dark
of midnight drowning out the light, one spark
remains that interrupts my evening rest,
your little face appearing in distress
as if you're begging me to stop the car
and pause disasters, breaking where we are
with time enough, amending certain doom—
a way to halt your death beneath the moon
that hovers cruelly taunting me each night
your eyes awash with helplessness and fright.
Your eyes awash with helplessness and fright
within a trace of hope that's blind to sight
yet punctuating promise when there's none
to see, as if an angel waits among
the commoners, a savior blessed with wings
or able specter watching over things
to swoop beneath the clouds and save a soul
from all that gathers in harm's way—control
that guides us where intention sometimes fails
preventing dire wrong as life derails
the calm that helps us cope, and yet there was
no overseeing being who served because
some godlike intervention should be done—
Is this some form of proof there is no one?
Is this some form of proof there is no one
who's watching over us? The Day is Done
was once my bedtime prayer, my mother knelt
beside me as I whispered words that felt
as precious as a promise not to fear,
and yet there was no savior kind and dear,
no moment's hesitation or delay
preventing this catastrophe that day—
your death a question living on in me,
am I to blame for what I didn't see
not soon enough to change direction, churn
my wheel or seek another way, return
to life before. Your memory now stains
each road I see, your image still remains.
Each road I see, your image still remains
like echoes heard from heaven's hymned refrains
of all the loved ones lost along this path
of heartbreak, we call living, traced with wrath
where temper meets our sorrow's hidden pain.
If only chance allowed, I'd try again.
That morning, choosing not to leave my home
or had you found another place to roam
in pastures void of freeways, washed with cars
where you could play and purr beneath the stars.
Was it misfortune placing me behind
the driver's wheel? This tragedy's unkind
in how I view myself, though rueful; I'm
assuming guilt for murder is my crime.
Assuming guilt, for murder is my crime—
I try pretending you're alive and fine,
though faking truth's a lie that doesn't help.
In sleep, I wake to hearing something yelp—
I startle out of bed, and then I cry.
Remembering reality, I sigh,
replaying things like you were never there,
no thump, then gasping for a breath of air.
The sound of death is just your silent scream
though deafening in almost every dream.
Ignore the noise, I tell myself again—
unhearing your mortality, pretend
a prayer will help; I pray and pray, and then
I close my eyes and hear you say amen.
I close my eyes and hear you say amen,
ironic since you're just a cat, but when
you looked at me that day, it was as though
some humanness was seeping from your soul,
and I was lost to trauma, shock and blame
aware that it was me who'd live with shame
enabling this tragedy ahead
unknowing how to halt the scene, instead
of pushing brakes or causing any harm
to vehicles with passengers. Alarmed
my hands clasped tight around the steering wheel,
I watched you flip beneath my car. I feel
myself reliving how you died each day—
one mourning that will never go away.
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| AUTHOR BIO |
| Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas recently earned an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her chapbook, Before I Go to Sleep, won the 2012 Red Ochre Press Chapbook Contest. In 2019, An Ode to Hope in the Midst of Pandemonium was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Her collection, Alice in Ruby Slippers, was shortlisted for the Eric Hoffer Grand Prize in 2021 and received an Honorable Mention in the poetry category. She has served as editor-in-chief for The Orchards Poetry Journal and Tule Review. A thirteen-time Pushcart Prize nominee and seven-time Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared or is upcoming in the following journals: The Comstock Review, Redactions, and Verse Daily. She has served on the Board of Directors for The Sacramento Poetry Center and Women’s Wisdom Art. Recently, she received a certificate of achievement from the California Writers Club and was named Centennial Poet for her contributions during their 100-year celebration. She is a California Poet-Teacher in the Schools and an Associate Editor at Kelsay Books. |
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| POETRY CONTRIBUTORS |
 Melissa Balmain
Hilary Biehl
Marie Burdett
Lani Burshtein
Barbara Lydecker Crane
Barbara Crooker
Jehanne Dubrow
Stevie Edwards
Anne Graue
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Beth Houston
Lynn Levin
Susan McLean
Joanna Migdal
Zara Raab
Leslie Schultz
Joyce Wilson
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| Brittany Vogel is an award-winning, New Jersey-based painter known for her bold color and beautifully expressive line. Her Powerful Women series has struck a chord well beyond the gallery walls, earning inclusion in multiple exhibitions including a Monmouth Museum x Smithsonian Exhibition and coverage in numerous press outlets, including Yahoo! News and feature spreads in TapInto and 07030 Magazine.
Vogel's work lives in public spaces as much as private collections. She created a 12-foot interactive mural, Suffragists Marching, in the Columbus Circle subway station, and has delivered artist talks at the Bruce Museum and the Hoboken Historical Museum. Her achievements include the competitive Merit Scholarship from the Art Students League of New York and features in three consecutive Monmouth Museum Annual Juried Exhibitions. She has mounted solo shows of both her Powerful Women and Order vs. Chaos series in New York City and New Jersey.
Whether she's covering a subway wall or a canvas, Vogel's aim is the same: command attention from across the room, then reward a closer look with a rich, layered story worth lingering over.
Brittany continues to paint, exhibit, and expand the Powerful Women series from her studio in Hoboken, New Jersey, adding new women and new stories to the collection.
For additional information, please visit www.BrittanyVogelArt.com.
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