Mothering Along – MER Online Poetry Folio Curated by Cindy Veach and Jennifer Martelli In her poem, “Memo to the Absent,” Wendy Scher presents the Sabbath table set for two: the mother and the daughter. She writes, “We miss you as we kindle the flames, as we taste the wine, as we gather to eat, two shadows on the ceiling.” The poems in our March folio, Mothering Alone, present these moments that feel so touching, so emotional, woven into the tapestry of single parenthood, whether due to circumstances or to choices. The poems burn, like the Sabbath candles, with…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Julia C. Alter The Nursing Chair It’s an off-white chair, a chair that sits four feet from a TV in a house that’s somehow only five minutes from me. It’s empty, holding only the grimy imprint of a heavy body, the imprint I glimpse through a window in the dark. The body belongs to my son’s dad, who has paused the game on the screen to grab another beer from the kitchen. It’s Sunday again, and again I’ve avoided this all day—dropping our son’s packed lunchbox in his backpack on the busted deck because how can a gray shadow…
Ana María Carbonell Ledger & Vermouth –They say after everything is gone cockroaches remain. The clicking of ice cubes in the back office told them she was home (maybe she’d been there for hours). She’d pour a vermouth (or two) and in her 8” by 14” hardcover ledger neatly log deposits & expenses that had to add up (she had five children). Even when she couldn’t sleep, she’d rise at six to teach seven classes. Then go to a second job, discuss loans with bankers who’d say, Go home and ask your husband. Tell him to call us…
Savannah Cooper-Ramsey By Four Months My body anticipates your illness by overproducing milk. I wake wet with it. You cry so much, and neither of us truly sleeps. “Why?” I say, “Why?” as I remember not to shake you in the least before reaching down to cradle you, sweet, hot, and small. We are both so tired: you from bawling in discomfort and me listening awake to your changed breath straining, clogged, and steady. With nobody to watch us, I fear drifting off with you in my arms. When your cold clears, I make lists. I think of them…
Jill Crammond When I Sell My Wedding Ring at the Pawn Shop —After Morgan Parker I grow wings with the following conditions. Divorced is defined as not married, my children renamed fledglings. Single mother is understood to be metaphor for on the market. The market is a grocery store, is a shop with meat, is a niche boutique where I sell discounted me to the shopper with a hand-drawn coupon. Does this make me sound like a domestic long-hair looking for her forever home? My home has always been a shelter. I have always been feral, been stray on…
Kelsey Jordan I Find a Blond Hair in His Laundry I ignore the baby and yet, cannot take my eyes off her red and wrinkled fists of a freshly burned phoenix. I walk around her nursery, a bird beating itself against the window. I know if I hold her now it will be too tightly. And if I rock her, I might not stop. Kelsey Jordan is a poet, author, and writing mentor living on the Oregon Coast with her daughter. She has her MFA in Writing from Pacific University. If interested in writing mentorship, contact her…
Laurin Becker Macios Mama, Look Laurin Becker Macios’ books include the forthcoming YA verse novel Calling Me Home (Holiday House, 2026) and the poetry collection Somewhere to Go, winner of the 19th annual poetry award from Elixir Press. Her poetry has appeared in PANK, The Pinch, and elsewhere. More at laurinbeckermacios.com.
Kali Pezzi I Treat My Postpartum Depression With Friends On Facetime Self-diagnosed. I’m in the midst of an existential crisis. I text crisis text line and they ask me if I have weekend plans. I don’t. I can’t plan when my anxiety makes plans for me. I can’t plan anything, not even enjoying a cup of coffee when my anxiety tells me I’ll be dead. A friend says, “ugh you’re so dramatic.” I weigh myself everyday. I finally weigh the same amount of grief I did at the beginning of the pandemic. Low budget therapist Claire says, “go to…
Sara Quinn Rivara Single Motherhood Is My Superpower I wish I could shoot light out of my hands. Light would fill me as water fills a glass. I wouldn’t let men near. Summer evenings, I’d walk unafraid through dark parking lots, stars bright as juneberries, the baby strapped to my chest. A seedcoat of light would enfold him. I could fly if I hoped hard enough, leap over the roof of the garage and the trash fire of my life. When I sent my son with his father, I’d let light seep into his outstretched hands. I don’t know…
Adrie Rose Climate Strike I organize the strike and I burn dinner. I organize the strike and I carry our clothes two blocks to the laundromat. The news says it’s already too late and I organize the strike. I organize the strike and call my mother to check on her bloodwork. I organize the strike and I practice my Spanish. I organize the strike and forget to buy cat litter. I organize the strike and I go out for boba tea with my twelve year old. I hold their hand as we walk. I organize the strike and men…