Author: Mom Egg Review

Review by Mara I. Amster  – It has long been my pleasure to introduce upper-level students to my colleague Bunny Goodjohn’s first novel, Sticklebacks and Snow Globes (The Permanent Press, 2007). The novel brings readers into the 1970s world of British council flats, adolescent girls, and the pains and pleasures they undergo as they navigate their lives within and outside their front doors. It is a book that makes me want to open it again as soon as I have finished it. Goodjohn’s first poetry collection, Bone Song, the winner of the 2014 Liam Rector First Book Prize for Poetry,…

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Review by Carole Mertz – Williams’ poems move from death to life and from life to death as she traverses themes of miscarriage, fertility in woman and in earth, scenes of grief, but scant joy. A tone of quiet regret underlies many of the verses. Any mother who has lost a child will appreciate the stark images of emptiness and sorrow conveyed in “Song” and “Eight Weeks.” There are no specific divisions in this short collection. We experience free verse poems about a woman’s desire to conceive, birth, loss of a child, loss of a parent, the caring of a…

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Review by B.A. Goodjohn …Would you ever / like to glide through passageways / and aisles of night / tossing the hours behind you like confetti / or blossoms, / while below you / the sea sprawls—a voluminous train rippling / with fathoms and light?… (“When Asked Why Do I Always Leave the Country When I Travel” 13) Of course, the answer has to be yes. Whether we translate “aisles of night” as the stark confines of transatlantic air travel, paid for with hours—lost or gained—or as a more metaphorical take on our daily movement through time and terrestrial space…

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Reviewed by Sarah W. Bartlett – As a native New Englander very tied to her roots, I deeply appreciate the voice of this collection of poems. Not only do they paint a vivid picture of Big Sky country, where I have visited in awe of its spaciousness and grandeur. They also portray an intimate portrait of lives lived big and bold as the space they occupy. The spaces they open and weave on the page are a testament to the author’s own rooted histories, and more. Lockie writes with a fluid grace, her language as rich and varied and layered…

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Author’s Note: Gabriella Burman on her book of essays, Michaela I set out to write a memoir after the death of my daughter, and that is still the plan, but the task of completing a book length project while also raising very young children is daunting for me; as many working mother writers do, I write in shorter spurts. So I decided to focus my writing around a central question — and as a bereaved mother, there were many, far too many. I began to “essay,” to wrestle with and reflect upon a single question in each piece. I accumulated…

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Sally Deskins –  is an artist, art writer and writer. Her art has been exhibited in galleries in Omaha, New York, Philadelphia, Charleston, Pittsburgh, Ohio and Chicago; and has been published in publications such as Certain Circuits, Weave Magazine, and Painters & Poets. She has curated various solo and group exhibitions, readings and performances centered on women’s perspective and the body. Her first illustrated book Intimates & Fools, with poetry by Laura Madeline Wiseman, was published in 2014 by Les Femmes Folles Books. Sallydeskins.tumblr.com

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Anna Lawson Artist’s Statement: I have sketchbook after sketchbook of image ideas ….The set of images that are relevant to women …was started in response to being a very tired and frustrated mother and it was, in truth, the only way I could cope at the time. The first one hundred and fifty nine were completed in a period of around four weeks. The drawings are raw – by that I mean painful – they were in direct response to given situations – reactionary. I guess it stopped me from screaming at the children – you know those times when one…

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Get the Issue Leap of Faith by Deborah L. Blicher –  The little boy I hope will become my son lines up his scuffed shoes on the edge of the sandbox, gauging the distance to the ground. It’s sixty degrees out, but like all the children I have seen in this Russian city, he’s overdressed to my American eye. Between his striped, knitted cap and puffy blue coat, I can hardly see his face. We speak different languages, but as far as I can tell, he hates me. The boy, whose name in Misha, is two and…

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Megan Merchant Ghazal for Unspoken Sorrow What will become of us, our son resting along the line of my hip, hum. The sweet whimper-whine his breath makes, lip pressing lip, hum. In our half-dark, we hush hands and mouths while he’s asleep in the room, the stretched and scarred afterbirth of my body unfolding a deep rooted hum. Thin white milk streams from my nipples onto your chest, a praise of unspoken sorrow. My body weeps without permission, a primitive, broken hum. A Monk said, you cannot know compassion until you love your own mother, absolutely. If I exhaled completely,…

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Sarah stopped rocking; a branch broke off in the wind, rolling down the roof, or did the lights flicker? She shuddered; she had a childhood fear of wind, of things unseen. How long until the power goes out? The book she was trying to read lay on her lap, open; she rested her head against the hard wood of the rocker and closed her eyes. She had just recently begun reading in here, the room that once belonged to her oldest. She wanted to make it a happy room, a room for guests, as if new soft carpet and quiet…

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