Donna Vorreyer MAKING TEA, I REMEMBER A LONG AGO SUMMER Honey hanging from the thickened dipper becomes a stream of spit from my teasing brother’s mouth, summer heat and hose water shimmering the scene becomes my mother’s favorite scrimshaw…
Browsing: MER Online
Tamar Jacobs GOOD WHOLESOME AMERICAN THING I sat away from the street on a curb mostly hidden behind a bush to allow them the illusion of independence and I heard people tell them, my sons, 7 and 9,…
Amanda Auchter IMAGINARY SON: WATER I could say there was a flood and my body the boat that kept you safe. But my body was only temporary, and would buckle come morning. I would let you live in each…
Melody Wilson The Smell of Lambing —after a comment by Barbara Drake A friend says she’s nostalgic for lambing, for the smell she loves but will never experience again. I imagine lanolin, grass, the birth of kittens—a scent so narrow…
Happy Poetry Month! Many of us try to write a poem a day for the month of April, 30/30. I admire those who follow through without stress, but for many of us it seems difficult to “write on demand,” to…
Alexis David The Walled Forest —after David Baker’s “Can You Say It” There was a calling. Yes, the winter leaves. They were calling me— sparrows, soil, the blue tones of light and a rhododendron tree. It was a calling, yes,…
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…
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…
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…
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…