by Adeline Macdonald Clean steam iron the linen sheets, white and crisp and beautiful and without fault or fold White walls upon white walls with nothing to upset you or hurt you or make you cry or want to leave or want to think Do you love it? Is it…
by April Garcia Could fear be the invisible culprit hiding— like a Copperhead in dead leaves —waiting, to poison me before ink meets paper? Even now, it slithers unseen— though the recesses of this busy mind.
By April Garcia Middle class. Trailer trash. Stay-at-home mom. If staying home to raise my son, the noblest of all arts, deems me ignorant– then ignorance is bliss. Narrow-minded. Success-blinded. Workin’ for the man. You slave away, –9 to 5 I work 24/7 shaping the mind of an innocent young…
By April Garcia Seamlessly, unending hours. The body feeling things it never knew existed. As though the inside of me has come alive. Then comes the pushing. If you’re lucky, it’s quick. I count, we count, the nurses count: 1… 2… 3… and so it goes until we reach 10….