Author: Mom Egg Review

Sarah Dixon, born in London and raised in Cyprus and the Middle East, is a socially-engaged conceptual artist using a wide range of platforms and media. Her work explores participatory art making and ideas around how the ‘human social organism’ works and can be altered through communication and collaboration, both online and IRL. She draws on a very wide range of experience: she has a degree in Biology from UCL, worked as a ethnobotanist in the Ecuadorian Amazon, and has studied art forms from Orthodox icon painting to bronze casting and corporate design. Her work, has been shown at the…

Maggie Smith Overheard Nothing is yours. All of this, everything, is ours. When my daughter, age seven, says this to her little brother, I stop sliding the white plates into the kitchen cabinet and peek into the playroom. So much of what she says has the tone of prophecy, as if part of her lives in the future, as if she’s traveled up ahead, out of sight, but has stopped and turned, hearing me call. I call them my children, but nothing is mine. They are part of the shared all and everything she speaks of. Every night I check…

Kelli Russell Agodon Post-Partum Depression in Volvo For weeks, depression wrote her letters. Now darkness is so close, she feels its tongue in her mouth. In the slow motion of impact, car hitting tree, she imagines Plath, how that was one way and this, another. She wonders if she’s connected to poets, not by blood, but gloom. Where is her child? And in which room? A doctor in a blue mask looms: You made it. You’re all right. She realizes every note she’s written has been overlooked and looked over. Strangers walk to the window and tap on the glass—…

Karen Skolfield Raven Versus Crow “If a raven got in a fight with a crow, who would win?” my son asks. “Why would a raven fight a crow?” I ask. “It’s a strawberry,” my son says. “They’re fighting over fruit.” “It’s hard to imagine a fight over a strawberry,” I say. “Animals fight over food,” my son says. “Yes,” I say, “but a strawberry? It wouldn’t be a very serious fight.” “Oh, it’s serious,” my son says. “To the death.” “I don’t think ravens and crows fight to the death,” I say. “Can’t they just go find other strawberries?…

Stephanie Bryant Anderson My Sons (on dead fathers, the Celestial mother & other mothers) I.     Child #1: diagnosis, extreme intelligence / anxiety / OCD My son 4, said the trees are closer than the moon. And the moon is flying in the sky. When the moon finds a baby that it likes, it follows the baby all night. He already knows the sound darkness makes, that space is deceptive the way it makes you think it will hold a body forever, or the way light, enters through the window, feels like constellations or cloud cover over the…

Erika Meitner Interval “I know backwards the grief of life like chance” – Bernadette Mayer o the music, we have to hurry and drive and sit and call and wait and once, we were silent we stood in a darkened hospital hallway mute on a sunday until someone said go home, so still we wait—and time, it ticks like a hammer driving nails into lumber. the frame is up on the house down the hill that blocks the view of (our) mountains that don’t belong to anyone, that no one can claim and all we can do is hang on,…

Sarah Browning In Mind, Two Months “The most spectacular thing in the world is in my mind. That’s where everything is happening.”– Toni Morrison The runny sound of baby poop. The pull on my nipple, the yank. Washing my hands at the bathroom sink, breast milk dripping on my feet. The hickey my son gave himself sucking on his arm when I was too sick to get up and nurse. His drooping eyelids, the white of his eyes as he falls asleep. His scrotum. The way his fist hits at my breast while he’s sucking. Spit up like cottage…

Teri Cross Davis Two Glasses of Milk If I were to leave them two glasses of milk, don’t write about that, write about the napkin- the perfect triangle tucked around the circle of glass, the absorbed condensation. If I were to leave them two glasses of milk, it would be the tension of motherhood and career, poet and wife pulling like teeth at my extended nipples until I was greedily consumed in silence. If I were to leave them two glasses of milk, even across my tombstone would be the words: daughter, wife, mother. Identities like anchors, so heavy…

JP Howard Night stand Mama buried herself in liquor Love kept her locked in that room Secrets are like insides of coffins We hide everything in plain view Everybody knew Mama had a secret lover, Tucked under her night stand Mama kissed his framed photo each night Before she tucked me in sugar hill, a love note, in pieces sugar hill you still in my bloodline when the world gets too crazy, convent avenue call my name she say, Juliet come play hopscotch on the block baby girl sugar hill, i still love you, even though mama almost…