The Yellow House

by Beth Sherman

The Yellow House

The night thrums with moths. Each house a door that won’t open. Each house a blind eye. No sidewalks. Only pavement. The street sign says Aster Lane, but that’s not the right flower. No yellow house. Stars, where? Through the windows I see families in a coloring book. Shadow pavement, darker than sealskin. Too many seconds, not enough time. Where are the stars? I walk and seek, walk and search. A home is not a fire hydrant. Through the windows, cartoon families. Familiar but not, with the wrong polka dots. Too much time, not enough hope. I want my Mother. Moths want to nest in my hair. A car passes, speed larked. Another street – Bluebell Way. Wrong flower again. A home is not a driveway. Too much hope, not enough sidewalk. The house is yellow, with polka dot curtains. A house is not a tree. A house is not a flower with droopy petals. Purple flushed. Another car, moving slower. Purple petals. Iris. That’s it. Iris Street. Out of the car swings a girl. A house is not a girl. Mom. Her voice worry-sprinkled. I know this girl. She’s me. Mom? Her face a petal tipped toward the moon. 

Beth Sherman’s poetry has been published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Synecdoche, Lime Hawk, Rust + Moth, The Evansville Review, Stone Circle Review, Silver Birch Press, Red Ogre Review and elsewhere. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.