A Launch Reading Celebrating MER 21 Friday, June 16th 7 PM (Eastern) Online via Zoom Register: https://bit.ly/MER21zoomlaunch\ Featured readers: Margo Berdeshevsky, Annelies Zijderveld, Carrie Bennett, Mary Bonina, Robert Carr , Eileen Cleary, Ashley Cundiff, Merridawn Duckler, Suzanne Edison, Jen Edwards, Kelley Engelbrecht, Lupita Eyde-Tucker, Brandel France de Bravo, Elizabeth Garcia, Marie Gauthier, Pat Hale, Katie Hartsock, KateLynn Hibbard, Livia Meneghin, Gloria Monaghan, Dayna Patterson, Jennifer Pons, Kyle Potvin, Kimberly Ann Priest, Jessica Purdy, Martha Silano, Pramila Venkateswaran. Order a PDF copy of MER 21 Reader Bios Margo Berdeshevsky, NYC born, writes in Paris. Recent books are Before…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Brian Clements A poem about mothers might contain a list of battles, homes, and film worlds where mothers appear, might comprise all instances of mothers of pearl, of invention, of babies and all wars, might list their unacknowledged legislation of high school drama and grade- A unpasteurized mother’s milk, and surely would itemize the value of story time, of time for homework, time to come home. But the poem must not leave out one hard fact: mothers lose their children; whether to college or work, whether to illness or a bullet through the living room window, whether to drug…
Margo Griffin How to Signal a Ceasefire During War I slipped my feet into the warm, pink, fuzzy slippers my daughter Maura bought me three Christmases ago, before our war began and back when she liked me. The gift was sweet and pink like cotton candy and as soft and cozy as a bed of cotton balls, a stark contrast to the bitter, sharp-edged words my daughter has gifted me with since. I sighed, rolling my eyes as I puttered into my kitchen, careful not to pound my heels like a frickin’ elephant as I passed her bedroom door.…
Melanie Faranello Becoming Early Days I stick your tiny fist inside my mouth and cry. It’s the size of a plum. We have no regard for time, or the falling from day into night into day. Together, we defy the clock. You nurse with terrifying instance as though maybe, maybe, you can crawl back inside of me—the closest we will ever be, the most we will ever inhabit the same space. We do not understand that everything will forever be in effort to recreate this impossibility. These are the things nobody tells you: Spit-up crusts my hair for days. Sticky…
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…
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…