At the end of the world, you turn left, not a complete left, more like a 45°. Now, this is not something you want to get wrong, because if you take a wrong turn, you might just end up back in the middle of your world again… and think about how long it has taken you to get to the end… So you take a 45° left turn, the clock tower will be behind you. Don’t turn to check, trust that. What other indicators can I give you of what’s in front of you to show you’re going the right…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Every night when you go to bed a lonely old man is sitting in the corner counting the stars. A widow is living her life as if it is on hold. A homeless child is playing with poverty and hunger. A refugee is publishing his “dirty” story on his grave. An oppressed woman is catching the sky by her prayers. A mom is calling death to meet her vanished son or daughter. An orphan is looking for a who to dry his pain. A prisoner is drawing freedom and peace on the blind walls. A and a and a, till…
my sister and I got them just from growing our thighs and breasts marked as if by tiger claws first they were bright red then with years faded to silver moonlight someone said it was because we were fed too much soy and milk with hormones it made us grow too fast and not enough vitamins to flex the skin but I knew either way becoming a woman daughters of a woman who couldn’t teach us how to use a menstrual pad because she was too afraid of her own blood now in a rice field I hear women humming…
I want to share with you my story. But none of the sentences make it to the page. You see, I have fled from my mother tongue— abandoned my voice. I have fallen in love with a new vocabulary, words I am yet to understand. Gutteral, unpronounceable words. In English, this new story would lack authenticity, my love sound shallow. Hebrew is the language of my heart. I long for each word that I cannot say. I put on the radio, and whether I understand or not, I feel revived by its rhythm. New worlds and languages, even after all…
As for Hannah, she was speaking in her heart, only her lips were moving. So Eli thought she was drunk. — Samuel 1:13 In synagogue I pray, my body separated from the men, a glass screen between us: they still see me swaying to and fro to the rhythm of supplication. My Lord slides in psalms over my tongue, I am undone by my wanting. My lips keep parting & I’m mumbling like a mad woman— pouring out the juices of my soul, down my legs, down the screen. The men who see me think I’m drunk, but they are…
It was the absent one that kept her awake at night while the others slept peacefully, tucked up in their beds after another story, another sip of water, another kiss dropped on their little heads. Years later, it is the absent one that enters her dreams uninvited, calling voicelessly from another room, painting clumsily over the darkness with more darkness, unformed hands stretching out beyond her grasp. Joanna Chen’s poetry, essays and literary translations have been published most recently by Guernica, Narratively, Poetry International, Asymptote, Poet Lore and Mantis, among others. Less Like a Dove was published by Shearsman Books in 2016. She writes a…
When El-Natan was born the room swelled like a balloon and filled Jerusalem, my wailing knocking on the walls, my open legs the valleys of the souk and he between them, the rope of our dual history unfurling him. At night his cradle was a lake and I was God and he a Noah’s ark of wild things he’d become— puppy, monkey, eagle, wolf, gazelle. His nails were all the necklaces I’d ever worn, his skin a pale reflection of God’s dreaming. And in the creases of his ears the Jordan river flowed with messages of war. The rustle of…
born not in a hospital not in a bedroom not a manger not ark and wicker not an alley not the backseat not a clinic not the White House born a Sabra— tender, tough in a porcelain bowl welcome home Akilah Mosley received a Master’s Degree from the Shaindy Rudoff Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Bar-Ilan University in Israel. She also attended Howard University in Washington, D.C. where she earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) Degree in Theater. Currently, Akilah lives in Israel and conducts ‘Performance Poetry’ workshops alongside writing and directing plays. She takes pleasure in telling…
Review by Hannah Cohen The Atari centipede, Paris, walkie-talkies, and poorly-drawn comics—Jessy Randall’s third collection Suicide Hotline Hold Music is as far-ranging in its topics and images of love, sex, and adulthood as it is humorous and wholly human. A unique aspect of this book is its inclusion of drawings; for the most part, these one-page comics provide an enjoyable, visual experience. A curator of special collections at Colorado College, Jessy Randall has published in Poetry, Rattle, Asimov’s, Mudfish, McSweeney’s and elsewhere; her first collection A Day in Boyland was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. A writer with…
Review by Barbara Ellen Sorensen To read Millicent Borges Accardi’s Only More So is to step into pools of lush, full waters only to be pulled under by currents almost unbearably swift. This is a “jump into frozen water” (75), which invariably requires a “ … cardinal leap of faith” (75). Accardi’s poetry has earned fellowships from the NEA, Fulbright, and the California Arts Council, among others. Only More So is first and foremost astoundingly brave poetry because it explores subjects such as oppression, violence, rape, ethnic cleansing, and breast cancer. Women, in particular and unequally, have had to bear…