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…
Author: Mom Egg Review
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…
Martha Webster The Mourner’s Office I waited on a seat of oxblood velvet in a bay window above a raining courtyard. His coat hem swept the floor from the mirrored door: his last appointment. My purse, a pouch of Krugerrands. Now, I was at last a lady. The dead fox at my neck, smothered in a bath of “Joy.” Documents to sign, and a promise of taffeta. I pen my name and the lavender bequest of my mother’s sadness is mine. Martha Webster is a grandmother, nurse, hiker, whale watcher living in Los Angeles. Publications include Cortland Review, Collagist, Four…
The Mother Tree I want to write about mothers and trees. Roots and families. Art and love. Last year our world appeared to be on fire. Headlines captured devastating events around the globe. From politics to pandemics, the news cycle, as well as our personal lives, were upended in so many ways. In the midst of one of many California blazes, a story about a redwood matriarch dubbed the Mother of the Forest in Santa Cruz, California caught my attention. Mother of the Forest is one of the tallest trees in Santa Cruz Park. A symbolic womb at her core forms an 8 x…
A Mother’s Love Comes in All Shapes and Sizes by Corinne de Palma My mother was a quintessential modern woman, beautiful, educated, a leader in her own way, more than a match for my father, who, with his own intellect and good looks, was admired and respected. She was a virtuoso on the piano, and with her keen fashion sense, she was the epitome of elegance and strength. My father left home permanently when I was seven years old. But unlike many women in the 60s and 70s, my mother didn’t buckle from the pressure of being left alone…
Lisa Hase-Jackson Her Own Girl Lisa M. Hase-Jackson’s debut collection of poetry, Flint and Fire, was selected by Jericho Brown for the 2019 Hilary Tham Capital Collection Series. She holds an MFA in poetry from Converse College in Spartanburg, South Carolina, and a MA in English from Kansas State University. A full-time writer and Editor in Chief at South 85 Journal, Lisa lives in Charleston, SC with her husband, two cats, and seven chickens.
An Imperfect Mother by Joan Leotta One of my early memories is marveling over a statue of Mary, the Mother of Jesus in the corner of my first-grade classroom. The nuns said Mary was the perfect Mother. I learned more about Mary that year and soon had begged my mother for a statue of her to keep in my room—I talked to her when I was upset. This serene woman who was, as I had been told, the mother of us all, was very different from my dear but loud and often annoying real-life mother. My mother rarely had…