By Cindy Mercedes She was made of sharp edges and soft curves,eyes a deep brown with specks of gold.She smelled of dew after a rain,of pine cones that littered forest floors. Everything about her was beautiful-from her compassion that blossomed with vibrant colors,breathing new life unto slumbering seeds.To her sincerity…
By Maggie Kennedy “The orange tastes like a refrigerator,” my son says,spitting out his bite and pretending to gag,and though I have never tasted a refrigeratorI know what he means. The orange tastes like the plastic it was wrapped in.And though I have never eaten plastic,the conjured smell fills my…
By Angelica Whitehorne My mini skirt, a metallic shield. My martini in hand,a weapon with its tiny spear. I glory cry to a last generation’shomage of song, remember the fallen, the now mothers withwreckage hips bound to their front porches. I don’t belong to anyone, least of all myself.I open…
By Phibby Venable All my mother’s words live around here,and I am always placing them in whatever orderI can remember.They hold the door open each morning, and suggestI have a better gratitude and attitude,for being aliveI stretch my eyes all over the sky, I lean upand look over the mountainsMy…
By Kristal Peace (This poem contains domestic abuse.) My mother holdsMy hand as we navigateThe city’s streets during rush hour,The song of sirens escorting us home.She holds the grocery bagThat yanks her toward dinner. She holdsThe sharp words my fatherFlings at her when she thinksThe day is going well. She…
By Phibby Venable A wolf runs through my mind.I wake up to a compliant dreamon the nightstand,the moon in my eyes,an accumulation of pennies and dimes,a restless spider with worn webbing.A wolf is living in my small understanding,loose boned and lopinghigher up to howl.It is a cautious summer.Outside is a…
By Joan Mazza Track down the half-life of radioisotopesand you’ll find Uranium at 4.5 billion years,Carbon 14 at 5,730 years. Caffeine a mere five to six hours. Meds have half-lives, too—the time they take to degrade to half strengthwhen you’ll need to take another dose. What about marriages and friendships,…
By E. Laura Golberg She was a sturdy ballerina, now she’s like the tiny white mushroom that grows just above the grass, gills on top, open to every wind. Unlike me, her grandma, she still has years to live. Should my breathing falter, that plastic V below my nose, would…
By Gil Hoy SometimesYou have to say Farewell to another To say helloTo yourself.
By Pamela Wax —for Rob …at the still point, there the dance is. — T.S. Eliot There you are, baking breadbefore sunrise, kneadingits knots and sinews like a masseuse.You divine the dough’s perfect balancebetween a big-belly Buddhaand a contortionist, nudging…