The Far Side of the Moon is Another Form of Absence –after Luisa A. Igloria by Lorraine Rice Mostly I return the cold shoulder with a coiled tongue of distrust. I want to believe without the burden of proof but fear faith is for hairless, mewling animals all a-huddle, warm bodies pressed one to another in a woven bowl of dried grass and plastic strips, certain of return, the mushed up worm. I once tried feeding my baby this way, chewing what she couldn’t, breaking braids of meat to mash, then passing the pulp, nutrients…
Author: Mom Egg Review
In the Beginning by Z.M. Spalter Sleep when the baby sleeps, lay him on his back, no, lay her on her belly, but only if you are in the same room. Read books about sleep, as if you haven’t been sleeping, every single day of your entire life, since the day you were born, all without giving it much thought. Wonder if you should hire a sleep consultant. Sleep with baby beside you, not down the hall, and never, not ever, on the couch, but also not in the same bed as you, unless you decide to, but only…
The Language of Our Mothering -For Kai by Avery Irons Before you were born, a small, but solid enough, part of me feared that blood was the only ingress. And then I held you, and with blue-gray eyes, so unlike my brown-black ones, you peered up at me, and I was exulted— you knew me. _____ Our mothers called across with accents dipped in the souths of so many lands, trickling like grassland streams, and rough as waters not crossed for generations, chitchatting in the language of our mothering. “Gal, don’t let them nurses poke your baby that much.”…
Sailing With Lucille by J.E. Sills ++++++”may the tide ++++++that is entering even now ++++++the lip of our understanding ++++++carry you out ++++++beyond the face of fear” ++++++Blessing the Boats ++++++– Lucille Clifton (1937-2010) This poem you learn has the power of time travel. It arrives later in your life but stirs up those old Philadelphia days when your little life was happening and those storm clouds that threatened. It’s the late-1980s, you’re a j-school graduate student and a clerk for a tabloid newspaper–on the lobster shift. So-called after the old English for a lob, a dolt, a loser.…
Good Girl by Gail Upchurch Sweet messages written on the bottoms of my brown paper bag lunches. Crocheted, granny square blankets. A shared strawberry malt at Woolworth’s. In the eighteen years that I’ve been a mother, I have consciously held tight to as many of my mother’s joyous little dailies and weaved them into my own mothering practice. As much as I appreciate her and celebrate all that she got right, I’ve also fought against the more unsavory parts of her parenting approach–-namely, the emotionally destructive physical discipline she doled out whenever she deemed necessary. The day after Super…
Dwight –from a work in progress by Jacinda Townsend He’d heard his mother tell the story until it was legend. Her years on the North Carolina coast, attending college as an afterthought, an avocation secondary to her true purpose, that of allowing the ocean to wash over her feet and sweep up her calves, to draw her so far towards the continental shelf, the sea hugged her shoulders. She’d pack off from her rented room, motoring to the beach while the sun was still a stage light behind clouds, then catch a city bus home in time to attend…
Fab and the Fates –from a work-in-progress by Sophia Russell Fabienne sensed an opening to broach the subject she was giddy about but also scared of. “This week I just have my classes, mostly,” she said. “And I’m going to meet up with Michelle to celebrate my birthday.” Aaron turned his entire body toward Fab’s. “I,” he stumbled. “Oh, Fab.” He brought a hand to her chin and caressed it softly. “You know how crazy it’s been for me lately. We will celebrate you, too. Your choice, I promise. What do you want to do? Dinner? Weekend in the…
Schrödinger’s Mother by Shinelle L. Espaillat “You’re always tired.” They are almost pouting when they say this. You have heard this phrase from four different people this week. Your tiredness would likely baffle your single-mother mother and her single-mother mother and a whole line of ancestors whose labor literally built the world. You are not wading in troubled water; you are not withstanding water hoses and snarling Dobermans to demand your right to exist. But you still feel like Atlas. You want to find a way to express this to your almost-pouting progeny. You want to tell them: Yes,…
Mothers, Mothering, and Ongoing Conversations Mixed Genre Folio Edited by Mary McLaughlin Slechta The voices in this folio—a hive of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and art—hum with the conversations women have with their children, partners, mothers, and themselves. You will hear the pride and guilt of working mothers/artists, the frustration of adult children debating parents, both deceased and living, and the joy of others sifting memory for lessons and meaning. One poet opens our ears and hearts to the tender whisperings of guardian angels, while another, in communion with the moon, contemplates self and the passage of time. Three…
Motherconversating by Denise Lewis Patrick Osmosis… I remember being buttoned into a sleeveless, white-dotted Swiss dress. My mother had sewn it, as she did most of my clothes. She was crying, heavily pregnant with my sister. We were minutes away from getting into a car as part of her grandmother’s funeral procession. Mommie had been her favorite; everyone knew that. It was August, and probably very hot. We were both tense. But her sadness was one thing. My mix of confusion and fear was another. Before the white dress, my mother had distractedly strapped a thick Kotex pad between…