Sunayna Pal My Infant’s Nails small but sharp scratch my chest trying to grab on like a fledgling learning to get its grip living this new life I start the trim on the thumbnail cut his skin instead he cries I cry he stops I don’t Sunayna Pal was born and raised in Mumbai, India, now calls Maryland home. She has made her literary mark with her debut poetry book, Refugees in Their Own Country (B&W Fountain), which explores the Partition of India. Her evocative poetry graces the pages of numerous international journals and anthologies, museums, poetry festivals,…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Rachel Neve-Midbar Letter To My Children Sand between our toes and pockets full of sea glass—you sparkle, each of you. The smallest ones fuss, though the moon continues to pull the tide out to where it can’t be reached. Is this what we are searching for, the blue that haunts us? Once we believed it was G-d who eluded us. Now we know better—the cycles nothing more than gerbil runs to next year and the next. Yes, there will be more of you, but you will never swarm around me— not in the way I had hoped. Just as…
Marjorie Maddox XXX-XX-XXXX Not here, no, not obediently typed ____________before name, beside height_____________, below weight____________, alongside eye color__________, hair color_____________, marital status_______, number of children___, number of pregnancies___, inside skin and all affiliations, inside_________ me, now___________ blank. No longer here___________ or here _____________, bowing to the requested, the required, to the fill-in-the-form formalities of the everyday but also somewhere else unlisted______________, imprinted on the fingertips of strangers (names unknown) clicking their way across (required field here ___________) cyberspace, across who I am or was here______________ and over here_____________ before everything (please list items in order of disappearance) ______________________ ______________________…
Amy Lee Seahorses everyone assured you how you will feel better after the water breaks. but no one told you about the third-degree tearing, the brain fogs, the Mummy’s wrist which prevented you from holding your own baby. now, you wished you were a female seahorse instead – for male seahorses give birth. Amy Lee is a lawyer based in Seattle. She holds a BA (Govt)/LLB, UQ, a LLM from The University of Melbourne. She is the Managing Editor of Quail Bell Magazine, a NYC based progressive feminist digital platform. Her work has been published in Canada, UK,…
Natasha Herring To Bake a Black Boy Natasha Herring is a storyteller and former director at the Peabody Award-winning organization StoryCorps. She was an Artbridge, Kimbilio, and VONA Fellow. Her work has been seen or published at the Present Power Future Hope exhibition, Medium’s Middle Pause, P.S. I Love You, Oyedrum, Operating System 30/30/30, Promethean, and other publications. Back to THE WAY WE WERE
Elizabeth Hutchinson Arborvitae Christmas is over. All day it rained and now as the sun is setting, the first fat flakes of snow. Your fever is spiking again. All night the fire inside you raged darkened, flared again. You woke at one and two and three and four, woke and nursed woke and nursed, woke and vomited until you and me and the bedspread were covered in greasy white curds. Outside the arborvitae tree of life, sustainer of weary travelers is covered in a thin white veil. A loose string of multicolored lights keeps hurling itself against the side…
Caridad Moro-Gronlier For My 21-Year-Old Son, Who Calls Me on The Day Roe V. Wade is Overturned It’s not the ding of a text that comes in but the trill of his ringtone, Landslide, favorite song I refashioned into a lullaby, every note a link on the chain of nights that were ours alone, the childhood score I sang on repeat that he no longer asks for. I don’t hesitate to answer, though we’ve been locked in battle over boundaries and definitions, a ping-pong match of contranyms— how fast means firmly affixed, not just swift flight; how buckle means…
Rebecca Brock Mixed Tapes Is the question, what holds us? Or is the question, what do we hold? In one sitting, my son plays me REM, The Cocteau Twins, Death Grips, Johnny Cash, MF Doom—he pivots genres, eras with his phone and finger tips, plays snatches of an album to explain it, to show the whole arc of an artist and then shifts again without context of time, place, politic beyond his own. 1990’s era Janet Jackson followed by The Velvet Underground. Overwhelmed, I try to explain the mixed tape, the hours of listening to the radio, to songs…
Rachel Becker Flirting in 23B Oh there were unsuitable men even before your body became alien & ecstatic with children, a bread basket, doughy homily but now you are thirty something (married, suitably) & you haven’t flown alone since your kids were born, & yet here you are, in 23B on a flight to DC, sipping gin & remembering how to flirt. Turns out it’s muscle memory. Turns out there’s a heat wave between your seats. Your knees touch. It’s economy, after all. You swipe your phone & show him your kids, their gummy grins & say their names,…
Erin Armstrong Learning Language ear’ago, Mummy my coffee mug, half filled goes into little hands too big, she takes the handle, tips it, sloshes coffee into the living room carpet ear’ago, Mummy. She smiles tilting the cup toward my crotch. I say thank you because she brought me my coffee that’s half on the floor. I’m supposed to teach her to give to others, but she has no grasp, no grip, no ability to hold lukewarm coffee—my third cup. Today was an early wake-up day. It’s black outside even the stars have disappeared. Extinguished are the mornings where I…