Katie Manning The Ghost in My Knees I never met my great grandmother, but she lives in my knees, the way they freeze even on the warmest days, just like hers used to do. She lives in my…
Browsing: Poetry
Folio Editors Cindy Veach and Anna V.Q. Ross To mother is to live with the constant oscillation between noise (kids, advice, to dos, societal expectations) and silence (naptime, playdates, custody arrangements, estrangement, empty nest). The poems in this folio…
Rachel Beachy All the Small Things “It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us. What astonishes is the singing.” – Jack Gilbert In the long night, the night spent longing for rest – when rest is…
Jessica Bozek Lost Constellation: Noctua Without drugs I lack the imagination it takes to look up and see an animal in a scattering of stars. Rotate the shapes and a different bird emerges: solitaire, thrush, mockingbird, owl. Pictures…
Anna Crandall To: E Dear, Out of the black dark of: coyotes yawping their humanoid songs to the shine of the paved-bright street-light city, your cries, too, barren animal greed. My thistle-thorn, my kismet, my moon-crescent fingernail hanging…
Alexis David A Topography of Motherhood The fog lays over the hollow hills and I am here dreaming. I pair the sound of death with the taste of ginger. The moment of birth with the memory of bones.…
Andrea Deeken Silent Treatment White static on the television, a wave rising at my back. A wall of grey clouds skimming towards my car. I am driving away from you. Since we last spoke, Spring has come. The birds…
Carol Dorf Ignore Them: Memorial Day Bees swarmed by our front door – I ignored them – the way I had been taught I guided my child to do the same – Ignore them my mother would say…
Caitlin Gildrien The Stone Sits Down to Dinner It is loud with children debating the most powerful Pokémon and the stone is grateful she doesn’t have ears. One child does not like her lasagna, though last week this…
L. Bellee Jones-Pierce Early May The robins are late this year. I thought they’d never nest. Their piles of sticks and grass, dirtied cobweb nets, waxed and waned like a moon at the corner of our porch, growing…