Not For Nothing: Glimpses Into a Jersey Girlhood by Kathy Curto Review by Julia Lisella Set in the early 1970s on the south Jersey shore, adult women who came of age in the early 60s still get their hair done into beehives and their men listen to Jerry Vale and swear never to be seen in jeans. Little girls don Mary Janes and dance for their father’s paisans and regulars at Fred’s Texaco station. Families gather for Sunday dinners. But the story takes surprising turns as our narrator watches with dark and steady attention as mother and father split…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Love, Love, Love! We’re fans of romantic love, but there are innumerable other varieties. Our poets and writers explore the many facets of love in this folio. Love can be filial, parental, passionate, platonic. There are many ways to show love. We love you, our readers, and present this work to you with our love! Featured: Alexandra Beers Elizabeth J. Coleman Lorraine Currelley Jessica Feder-Birnbaum Kathy Kurz Mary Makofske Katie Manning Marcos Martínez
Marcos L. Martínez Amá (El Cruce) I. Puentes She drowned one once, caught its scraggly little feelers in the whoosh and spout of faucet, flushed its fragile alien body down the stainless-steel sink: black against silver, sliding and swirling down a whirlpool to oblivion. Black ants: each Spring return, crawl back into her kitchen, scurry to make ends meat for their own budding colony; sniffing out crumbs, tracing pheromone-trails in case they don’t return: calling forth siblings to some food- -rich new home. II. In This Other Country Sweep, mop, scrub, brush, wash, chop, toss, bake: her body whirled…
Elizabeth J. Coleman Two Subway Trains on Parallel Tracks The baby across the aisle in a yellow slicker flirts with me, eyes crossed in shyness, lodged in his mother’s safe embrace. He’ll forget me in a little while, ensconced safely in his mother’s arms, eyelashes lush as black silk strands, as I pass my childhood on the track next to us, that one running parallel but express, where seats are of a gold cane weave, and I ride with my mother, pretending to look like I can make out the words in her hard-cover book. You’re holding it upside down,…
Mary Makofske Jazz Duo Now our son learns to accompany a woman singing. Not too much amp, don’t step on her words. He takes his solos, or leaves them, they talk about key, where to start, how to end. The way her glance lights his face, everyone knows she’s singing the love songs to him. Their repertoire is straight from the standards book: I May Be Wrong, (But I Think You’re Wonderful). The sun didn’t shine Till There Was You. There were times when Dissonance was all, when he was lead guitar with no time for lyrics older than him.…
Katie Manning Love Poem with Teeth for Jon What would you do with it? you ask. I would keep it hidden in my jewelry box like a witch collecting body parts for a spell, I think. Then I go ahead and say that out loud. You laugh and look like you don’t believe I’m serious. Later, when we’ve waited for our son to be deep in dreams, we sneak into our own bedroom, you shining a screen light across our firstborn tucked into the sleeping bag where he begged to be on this special night. We negotiate in whispers— a…
Jessica Feder-Birnbaum Just A Dog The dog is picky with food. His glands are swollen. Blood work shows Canine Lymphoma. Chemotherapy offers a shot at remission. There is rarely a cure. The kids say you favor the dog. Not your idea to get the dog. Now you must save the dog. You thought you were being frugal by adopting a rescue. Fat chance. First there were the puppy warts. Next was the hip dysplasia. And now the dog has cancer. A cycle of chemo costs as much as sending the kids to sleep away camp. The same as a month…
Kathy Kurz Flesh “This is for you, Mom.” My youngest daughter, Julia, is home from college for the first time proudly showing me ‘my’ tattoo—sprays of lilacs and dogwood blossoms covering her shoulder. I try to be pleased. She explains: the lilacs are for me, my favorite flower, and the dogwood’s for home, because of the one in our front yard she loved to climb. I tell her it’s beautiful, and it is, but secretly I mourn the smooth, clear skin those flowers erased. Reality shifts as my sweet Julia joins the crowd of others linked in my mind with…
Lorraine Currelley Under The Bridge on Saturday mornings mama would dress us children and take us under the bridge. under the bridge was our name for the marketplace in spanish harlem located under a bridge. it was also known as la marqueta. it was made up of rows and rows of one story buildings. in these buildings were the finest fruits, vegetables, poultry, meats, produce, colorful clothing and goods for the house. a trip under the bridge was a magical adventure for us children. what i loved most about under the bridge was mama. i loved watching mama shop. mama’s…
Alexandra Beers Henry at the Hair Salon My 14 years’ son sits in salons admiring himself, discussing intently his intentions with cowlicks and product and natural wave. I indulge this vanity. Not like my own mother who saw but did not see my brother longing for attention, accessories, even makeup– Bowie his idol, Halloween his favorite night. Pinks plaids earrings hats clogs! He never found enough. Now his young doppleganger searches the mirror for clues how to be. How to live in fair skin and pride. How to be earnest, intimate. Years earlier, kids had shouted, You’re gay! I assured…