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…
Author: Mom Egg Review
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,…
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…
Reviewed by Tessara Dudley – Wendy Wisner is a writer and a lactation consultant, but the driving force behind her poetry is her motherhood. Her poems offer snapshots of bearing and birthing, being sister or mother or daughter. Generations of family stretch across the pages of Morph and Bloom, as in “Weaning: Burial”: “The night we buried my uncle was the first night my son fell asleep without nursing. He didn’t even ask. … Back at the hotel, I thought: I am the mother of a son who will one day die.” The collection begins with “Eve”, a poem that…
Photos here: http://themomegg.tumblr.com/post/118876238212/launch-party-pix-by-edward-currelley
By now, it’s a familiar lament. Usually it hits mid-semester, when the honeymoon period is over and the work has really piled up. I ask them how they’re doing, and in response they cover their faces with their hands and shake their heads. “Why do we get so much busy work? We have so much to do, and it’s so boring.” “Boring,” “boring,” “boring,” they moan as if “boring” was the most offensive adjective in their vocabulary, surpassing “cruel,” “callous,” “indifferent.” Well, perhaps it is. At least cruelty can inspire indignation; they get fired up, energize themselves. Boredom, well that…
Review by Sarah W. Bartlett – The author writes, ‘I’ve been writing different versions of this book my whole life.’ What woman doesn’t write and rewrite her mother-daughter story, if only in her head? What daughter doesn’t at some point long to know her mother? Or at least know enough about her to construct a context for what the daughter experiences in her own lived life? JP Howard is fortunate enough to have had considerable context. She knew, even participated in, her model-mother’s glamorous life. And she shares some marvelous vintage black-and-white photos from the 40’s and 50’s. Don’t let…
Reviewed by Lorraine Currelley – Mosaic is a wonderfully written collection of poems, where our senses bear witness. Poems are poetically weaved to passion, experience and craft. Margie Shaheed sculpts life. Her poems are full and rich with colorful imagery and phrasing. Her usage of language is clear, precise and free of struggles to embrace their meaning. You don’t read her words, you breathe them. Mosaic will resonate with its readers. There is an unspoken trust between author and reader. We join on this journey of joy and pain. There is always something new to be discovered in her writing.…
Max sat on the floor of the den putting the finishing touches on his Lego castle while he listened to his mother clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. Today was Topsy Turvy day. On Topsy Turvy days Max’s father worked late and Max and his mother ate pancakes for dinner. Pancakes were Max’s favorite. Max was a little afraid of his father. His father had deep lines around his eyes and mouth while his mother’s face was smooth and soft. His father’s hair was the color of the noisy birds at the beach, gulls his mother called them, while…
Sunday morning before my son stirs, I divide the milk for banking bag seven ounces for the ice box put aside a shot glass full for an offering * in one temple’s ritual re-enactment milk is flushed down a drain water returning to water – hundreds of school kids on a ferry boat drowned when the ship went down a white line of lanterns coiling down a river single wave forms going back to sea * inside the ceramic bowl a jizo sits awaiting activation, guardian of lost children – picture a puja, a milk bath a cleansing * ceremony…