Mary Makofske Jazz Duo Now our son learns to accompany a woman singing. Not too much amp, don’t step on her words. He takes his solos, or leaves them, they talk about key, where to start, how to end. The…
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Katie Manning Love Poem with Teeth for Jon What would you do with it? you ask. I would keep it hidden in my jewelry box like a witch collecting body parts for a spell, I think. Then I go ahead…
Jessica Feder-Birnbaum Just A Dog The dog is picky with food. His glands are swollen. Blood work shows Canine Lymphoma. Chemotherapy offers a shot at remission. There is rarely a cure. The kids say you favor the dog. Not your…
Kathy Kurz Flesh “This is for you, Mom.” My youngest daughter, Julia, is home from college for the first time proudly showing me ‘my’ tattoo—sprays of lilacs and dogwood blossoms covering her shoulder. I try to be pleased. She explains:…
Lorraine Currelley Under The Bridge on Saturday mornings mama would dress us children and take us under the bridge. under the bridge was our name for the marketplace in spanish harlem located under a bridge. it was also known as…
Alexandra Beers Henry at the Hair Salon My 14 years’ son sits in salons admiring himself, discussing intently his intentions with cowlicks and product and natural wave. I indulge this vanity. Not like my own mother who saw but did…
It’s Complicated… A folio curated by Marjorie Tesser As mothers, we are involved in the business of nurture. Sometimes this goes smoothly; motherhood can be a source of love and joy. But at other times, mothering can be complicated. Signals…
Morals by Abigail Walthausen What can I give without Joseph, Doula and sheepwives and cowwives? A range of applied pieties, against pan proteins for storybook farmers for the beauty of the earth against a token virus. Every coffee ground to…
The Loss by Dorsía Smith Silva At first, it begins so simple. The pain itself is nothing, something you control, by default. You recognize the strange violence, as it drifts through the pelvis and lands in the vulva. Now…
The Stepdaughters Are the Wicked Ones by Alexis Quinlan Scalding sand kicked to cool, cruel clouds roll past, white on light and happy giddy girls, volleyball reddening wrists. Spike it, one cries. To the side, new wife learning blood…