Lynne Connor Language of Grief I come from unreliable narrators. I come from my birthmother’s womb. I was next to her heart for nine months. And then I wasn’t. Who she was—Unkown. I was born in Korea—South or North—most likely South. But the exact place—Unknown. My abandonment story—a policeman found me on the firehouse steps and brought me to the closest orphanage. My adoptive mother, a strong independent white woman who chose not to marry—she liked to say I came from a 747 that carried me to the Philly airport in December of 1979. So with this birth story…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Regina Jamison “I love this picture of my mom and myself. Here she looks small and vulnerable, but I remember her as a powerhouse, a great force within our household.” Regina Jamison’s poetry has appeared in Five Two One Magazine, Artepoética Press Anthology: the Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2016, Promethean Literary Journal, Off the Rocks: An Anthology of GLBT Writing Vols. 14 & 15, Magma Literary Journal, and in various online journals.
Sonia Jaffe Robbins Audiences My mother died the same week as J.D. Salinger and Howard Zinn. She was an original red diaper baby, born right after the Russian Revolution; her father was an early member of the American Communist Party. She said she wasn’t political, by which she meant she’d rather curl up with a good book than be handing out fliers on the street. I imagine my mother sitting between Salinger and Zinn on a banquette at the back of the boat sliding through the river Styx, as the men argue over the primacy of literature or…
CHERYL BOYCE-TAYLOR STILL THE SWEETEST WORDS I EVER HEARD: Mom, I found my girl, she reminds me of you. Her name is Deisha. Mom I’m getting married walk me down the aisle. Mom I’m coming home for your birthday Mom I love you Mom grandma is my best friend I ever had Mom the album went gold Mom I have a son his name is David Mom I love that little guy. Try to forgive the wish of the body leave the ache behind tears pressed into a damp box start by burning the mosquito nets let river rise…
EILEEN CLEARY THE WAY WE FLED No branch silhouettes the snow. Tree limbs cut down by some bastard or buzz saw, chipped remains scattered afield around the stump as if they’d tried to escape the carnage, the way we fled from my father after school. Our legs gave out. He’d gather our grains in a burlap sack, sprinkle us around the corners of the house, soak his roots in whiskey. If you ever find you are defenseless it’s best to compliment the buzz saw, caress its teeth ─ pour it a glass of Jack Daniels. Let it snarl. Wait…
ZEINA HASHEM BECK TRIPTYCH: VOICE Zeina Hashem Beck is a Lebanese poet. Her most recent collection, Louder than Hearts, won the 2016 May Sarton NH Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, World Literature Today, and elsewhere. Her poem “Maqam” won Poetry Magazine’s 2017 Frederick Bock Prize. www.zeinahashembeck.com
REBECCA HART OLANDER FAWN From the age of fourteen, some weekends, I took the train from Gloucester, MA, where I lived with my mom, to North Station in Boston, on my way to my father’s house in Dorchester. The conductor called out Man-ches-tah, Man-ches-tah! Swam-scitt! and Beh-vah-lee Fahms! as we sped away from the rocky coastline toward the city. From there, I rode the Red Line in the direction of Ashmont, to Shawmut, my destination. One time, sitting on a molded blue plastic subway seat, overstuffed talisman of backpack held fast on my lap, I glanced at a…
LESLÉA NEWMAN #MeToo piano teacher sitting beside me on the bench sliding his hand beneath my behind; dentist reclining my chair all the way back and resting his tools on my chest; friend of my father’s pulling me onto his lap and promising to make me a star; co-worker of my father’s calling the house when he knew my parents were at a mutual friend’s wedding to tell me dirty jokes over the phone; mail carrier walking behind me calling, “I wish that swing was in my back yard;” man driving by in blue car yelling, “Nice tits;” man…
IDRISSA SIMMONDS DAWN PRAYER CALL on the line with my dying mother i choose words that land soft as fingers in the sweet of her scalp. sometime ago I became her patron saint of hope and faith a calm weft of voice she ascends. her voice thick with East New York then mine then hers again we call and respond our voices moving like smoke between open mouths. i was not holy before i have never been a light to anyone especially not my mother – pretty brown woman whose body contained mine, gave me my sheen, my breath…
JESSICA GOODFELLOW NIGHTSCAPE WITH RANDOM INTERSECTION Late at night a telephone booth becomes a cage, a trap— its overhead bulb a spotlight. Someone has been watching me— a pantless man. He body-slams the folding door. Dropping the phone, I whirl around, push back collapsing panels. A scramble, a scuffle, a struggle. Then, dead- lock—his weight pushing in equal exactly to my fear pushing out. The thin layer of glass between us shakes. The dangling phone behind is useless—no free hand. Late at night a telephone booth is a glass elevator in free fall to hell. I howl. The half-naked…