Ania Chromova Translated by Ali Kinsella untitled the old lady on the street offered my children some candies: are they yours? how darling. why only two? have some more. just two or three more. and make ‘em just as cute. why are you laughing? I’m serious. you’re still young, don’t get it. look, take a look. what’s at my back? death. what’s at your back? death. around the corner to the right—war. to the left—war. under our feet—bones. the sky is silent, who knows what it’s thinking about. I say this from the bottom of my heart. and don’t…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Jane Muschenetz DomestiCity When I close my eyes, the dishwasher sounds like a train on tracks. I am transported from Kitchen to Poetry As a child, I dozed on Soviet trains my American kids were soothed by cars Some mothers swear by vacuums, or the gentle rock and hum of a washing machine’s cycle There is something relentless in both the doing of dishes and the oncoming train… So many modern conveniences lull us to sleep Homeward Bound We don’t have a cow to forget to milk, instead We have Instacart, but I forget that too Unpaid are the…
Dzvinia Orlowsky Newton’s Cradle “You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th… with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness.” – Erma Bombeck 1. A crazy good time for everyone drinking and blowing themselves up, for the guns, bells, and the bonfires, and for the flames hurled towards the tops of buildings. But not for our dog swaddled in an old nightgown, shaking. Not for my mother anxiously rocking it, pillows propping her up in bed. Not for silence beating with an animal heart,…
Mother in Objects – A Folio of Prose and Poetry Our latest Mother Figures folio depicts how objects evoke the mother: our writers explore, in prose and poetry, concrete representations of the essence of a remembered parent. Karren Alenier – Granddaughter Clara Spera explores Bubbie Ruth’s big closet Sarah W. Bartlett – Linen Hankies Patricia Carragon – i’ve put on my mother’s shoes Jessica Feder-Birnbaum – If the Shoe Fits Linda Lamenza – My Inheritance Deborah LeFalle – Haiku José Edmundo Ocampo Reyes – Poem with the Yellow Pages and Rotary Phone Martha Webster – The Mourner’s Office Image by…
Linen Hankies by Sarah W. Bartlett Mutti, we called her. That’s the equivalent of “Mom” in German. A title we picked up from our six-month sabbatical in Munich, 1957. The name, having acquired her personality, became my own children’s way of referring to her, as well. She was not, of course, their mother. But (all too briefly) definitely their “Mutti.” My mother loved beautiful things. Her many foreign travels with Dad on business trips always produced treasures. Lengths of exquisite silk, delicate fans, ancient pottery and lacquerware from Japan. Hand carved wooden figures, authentic dirndls, original lithographs from southern Germany. …
Patricia Carragon i’ve put on my mother’s shoes & walked on city streets crossed asphalt & cobblestone gutters climbed various staircases to subways schools jobs apartments sometimes took elevators when available i felt the leather tighten heard soles sigh pain rose up vascular roadways— a headache signaled to action her past a telepathic rerun— i already knew how it would end emotions created her whorls & lines & no two fingerprints were alike unanswered questions stepped on anger & grief — wondered why I still shrink in my own shoes Patricia Carragon is the author of several books of poetry…
If the Shoe Fits by Jessica Feder-Birnbaum How can we keep the dead alive? In memory? In spirit? In…deed? What if the dead are larger than life? Like my beloved mother in law Gittel Bat Sarah or more commonly known as Gloria Birnbaum. Born Gloria Weinberg, 1929 in the Bronx, she was named for Gloria Swanson the movie star. And like her name sake, Gloria had star power. Statuesque and striking, my mother-in-law dressed to the nines. Head of the popular table and volunteer Yiddish instructor at the Riverdale Y, Gloria was surrounded by adoring fans. Yes. She was…
Linda Lamenza My Inheritance When the relatives drank the last drops of Crown Royal Whiskey, my grandmother washed the bottle out, soaked it until its label fell off. Polished, etched crowns surrounded its neck, diamond patterns made a crown, the shape perfect for Nonni’s fingers to grasp. Mom and Nonni cooked together, sometimes all day. My mother took the bottle down from the cabinet above the stove, Nonni got the metal funnel and Bertolli Olive Oil Can. I held the bottle steady while Nonni poured the green stream through. Never spilled any. Sealed it with a wine cork. The bottle…
Deborah LeFalle untitled haiku grandma’s yukata hangs in the tiny closet where her scent remains Deborah LeFalle is a former college educator who started writing in her retirement. In addition to writing she enjoys engaging in the arts, digging into her family’s past, and spending time outdoors communing with nature. Her work has appeared in various journals, magazines and anthologies, and she has authored two chapbooks: Worthy (2017) and Little Suites (2019). Ms. LeFalle lives a simple, gratitude-filled life in California’s Bay Area.
José Edmundo Ocampo Reyes Poem with the Yellow Pages and Rotary Phone for my mother Only the woman’s hands and last year’s phone book, resting on a wooden surface scarred and stained by past projects, are visible in the video, distance foreshortened as though I am seated close enough across her to hear her whisper my fortune. She folds, then turns each page the way one might leaf through old albums. Time, too, is foreshortened, hours of folding and turning compressed into minutes, and now the book is the type of tree I remember seeing on a side table when…