Raeshell Sweeting On weaning The day after it happened you walked up the steps holding onto the short rail. You told me you were a big girl. You could “do it yourself!” You did not ask can you hold me? That night you were determined to use the chopsticks and eat ramen “by yourself!” But at some point, you tire of the struggle – careful coordinated dance of utensil and food, you ask me can you feed me? I take the chopsticks you hand me, nimble fingers doing the work to grasp…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Elinor Ann Walker I will hunger “the wind, the wind,/ the heavenly child”—Hansel and Gretel “Don’t confuse hunger with greed; And don’t wait until you are dead.”—Ruth Stone, “Advice” All paths lead toward hunger. Hunger is a snarling wolf, a house of confection, the sweet that rots the tooth, the cramp that drowns her, an ogre, an ache in the voice of a mother, stepmother, witch. They say to the children, do not stray off the path, do not ask for anything. In her small hands, hunger dissolves like sugar; in his, a breadcrumb turns to dust, a brittle…
Kashiana Singh How to destroy a sunny side up, like an 8-month-old practice what you preach, walk the talk, show vs tell he learned to devour the yolk before he learned to bite into a toast, wonder where he got that from? he likes eggs. period. boiled are good with a steal of salt, crushed pepper, sprinkle of cumin powder but the sunny side up tender perfection of a golden center, sunshine himself, dribble spit streaked with oblique white, deepest yellow dotted with toast crumbs, or pepper crushed onto a lissome pattern of celebratory ochre a smile reaching his…
Anya Kirshbaum In the Midst of Catastrophe, She Blesses What Falls I’m here to confess the asian pear tree in our yard had a year of unabashed bounty, fruits hanging like succulent yellow baubles, so heavy the crown drooping, so close to toppling. And how it was a joy upon first discovery that I could hardly stomach. Glowing like some gaudy garden of riches. The waste the idle glut some kind of beautiful dagger. And that I almost made sake and pear sorbet. I say almost— a truth of which I am slightly ashamed. Now the rotting fruits stink…
Merie Kirby The witch I have become I plant cosmos and zinnia, flowers that hold their own crowns in their centers. I plant foxglove, so that at the new moon a fox will come and slip her paws into the soft mittens of the flowers. I memorize recipes for buttermilk pancakes, meatballs, and negronis. My cat is white, my little dog is grey, my plastic cauldron holds candy once a year. I shrank my herb garden to basil, rosemary, sage, mint. If the walls of my house were gingerbread I would have eaten them myself long ago. Standing in…
Nicole Greaves Scars On a late Friday night in the sauna, women gather, stripped down to their underthings or just wrapped in a white towel becoming spools. Even though we melt like candles, it’s not as hot as my mother’s country where I stood in my great-grandmother’s yard becoming wood like the cows who did not move when the flies settled on them. We sweat and sigh as our scars begin to glisten and ripple, come alive with their burning. You could unzip us like coats, and we could almost step out of ourselves, but no, we’ve spent too…
Anna Abraham Gasaway The Kenmore Refrigerator The light’s gone out but it still keeps things cold and freezes—Sears has gone out of business, so ten-year warranty’s no good. No repair person will come and visit this relic; it was the cheapest version—had no frills, no ice maker; we figured that’s the first thing that would break—but no, it was the side shelves; they have a weak middle—we duct taped them round and round. It’s filthy with ghosts of salad-dressings past, celery and greens left languishing, tuna from the Land of the Lost, weird smelling rot at the back. These…
Ana María Carbonell El Laguito I walk down the dirt road to a shortcut through a few pines that once felt like forest follow the path to granite rocks marbled with white stripes like the skirt steaks we always ate because they were so cheap, to the small beach at the edge of our laguito where I learned to swim, the fishy beach where I’d bring buckets and nets to catch minnows who’d nip if I didn’t keep moving sometimes they’d bite my mother too when she floated between breaststroke or the crawl sun on her face, her white…
Diane Raptosh As for Your Grandma Concettine Let x = any number of grandmothers / Let’s say yours never praised your name / Let’s test / Let’s circumflex / My history = your grandmother ^my mom^ me > you / Let’s wand | Let’s witch / Let rooster bones stew / Let the clouds whoop / Let marrow steam / Let’s dress ourselves in drips / Let’s lax / Let why walk / Let fat hollow out its stock / Let’s intersperse love with buckled knees and straightened backs / with sleepers snugged in twos like sticks || Let…
Keats Raptosh Conley Your mother, whose name I could never pronounce Dear Mom, Today we killed the rooster and as we boiled his bones I thought of the grandmother whose name I could never pronounce but reminded me of the Tom Petty song— ya never slow down ya never grow old. How she used to sing the praises of bone broth, of collagen, never of me. The rooster stock dresses the windows in steam, and I imagine her own bone marrow full of sardines and stubbornness. Potent as black garlic. We are all broth-built. Do we make ourselves or…