Annie Marhefka You can’t belong to the sky Her lips pressed against each other in a glistening pout when she said it, the melted ChapStick spilling over the top of its plastic cylinder in her chubby-fingered grip. The lid had been lost months ago and I had meant to toss the ChapStick while she was napping or playing in the bath. But then I never could take my eyes off the bubbled surface of the water when she was in it, capable of slipping out of sight, her sweet face dripping from air into water, and I never could…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Alexandria Faulkenbury In My Toddler’s Room In my toddler’s room, the internet stalls and sputters and gives up halfway through loading a page on my phone. I drop it into my lap in frustration. The darkness envelopes its illuminated screen, and I can no longer see it even though I still feel its warmth on my thighs. I stare at the wall where bursts of light dart across the dark space like a kaleidoscope. It is bedtime. Nay, it is well past bedtime. And I am trapped. Any parent who missed the memo on how to lay your child…
Ashley Knowlton Sprouting Specks Freckles sprinkle the top of my son’s nose– distinct like the rings of a tree, telling how many summers he’s spent under the sun and in the dirt with digging hands and dusty toes. Sapling only has several modest specks, but one day I’ll look up and he’ll be grown tall with summers of freckles smeared across his cheeks, up on his shoulders and down his lanky limbs. Today, though, I’ll nuzzle his little nose with mine, inviting our freckles to greet. Ashley Knowlton teaches English, and she writes poetry for enjoyment. Her work…
Marin Smith Just One Last Question Before We Say Goodnight By the way, Mom, she says, where did life come from? Well, I say, unsure where to start, There are many cultures with many answers to that question. Some people think, I say, there is a thing called god. I stammer, feel nervous, lowercasing the g, peeling out past the word. Others think, I say—but I’m lost, try to start over, I have no idea how to answer. She turns my words over like a rock in her palm, and with the swiftness of a scholar and some pity…
Jennifer Hernandez Chrysalis Stretched in his twin bed, my youngest son, eleven, lies wrapped in pale green. The rest of us awake for hours. But it’s summer, nowhere urgent to be. I let him sleep. This journey is not new to me. He has two older brothers. Before long, I know, I’ll glimpse flexing in front of the mirror, hear from behind closed doors the deep voice of a stranger-son. This minute though, between sleep-and-waking, he is my baby. Past noon, shades open, sun streaming in, I lie down next to him, smooth his hair, nudge him awake with…
Cassie Mannes Murray Round Peg, Square Hole If I was counting it would be thirteen. Feels like a small number, feels young. After walking in the rain, his hood half over one eye like a pirate or a cartoon bad guy, sliding the pile of books into the book drop, my son walked back and forth through the sliding glass door of the library’s entrance maybe thirteen times. He’s new to walking. Wobbly and waddling in equal measure, one leg ready to go and bending at the knee and the other dragging behind, but only slightly. Sometimes he leads…
Bethany Jarmul A Moment, A Memory I’m sitting on a porch chair on our back deck, which is covered with autumn leaves. Near my feet, my daughter crawls amongst them—shuffle, crinkle, shuffle, crinkle. The wind whips my hair, swirls leaves around us. My daughter plays with a plastic, toddler-sized motorcycle, spinning the doo-dads and smacking the buttons with clumsy fingers. She waves a leaf at me, like a banner. “Hi-eee, Hi-eee.” I wave back, pull a leaf out of my long, golden hair. Moments die too, like the leaves. They pass furiously from future to present to past. This…
Seeking poetry, fiction, creative prose and art on theme “Ages/Stages” through the lens of motherhood. Regular Submissions ($3) are open until 7/15/23. (Need-based scholarships available; please see guidelines). NOTE: Early Bird submissions are now closed (as of 4/28) as we have reached our Submittable limit.
Featured Readers: Ambriel Bostic Mary Lou Buschi Kevin Carey MP Carver Jessica Femiani Laura Goldin Melissa Joplin Higley Debbie Koenig, Tessa Rossi Karen Elizabeth Sharpe Cristi Wells Ackerman Ambriel Floyd Bostic lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY. She is a mother of two children and a dog. Her work in design is an exploration of visual story-telling. Ambriel founded and runs The In Kind Project, and nonprofit that helps children and artists collaborate to produce community theater projects. She has focused on board and volunteer work for social justice organizations for much of the last decade, including The Power…
Kimberly Ramos Reflection, But Shuffled When night slips into my bed and once again / the world is a place with no edges / I remember you are my first homeland / You, Missouri girl of cattle and birthing seasons / you of barn cats kept for utility but naming them anyways / you of early morning chores when the sky is nothing but a flush of purple dust in the pasture / You, the body that housed my body / our blood meeting like tributaries / we flowed into one another / My dreams were your dreams /…