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…
Browsing: Poetry
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…
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…
To My Twenty-Six-Year-Old Daughter by Connie Post You are sitting in front of me two days before my hysterectomy telling me you are having a baby in July asking questions only the moon can answer the wooden grain in…
Beta splendens (Siamese Fighting Fish) by Paulette A. Pashibin Beautiful carnivores: curious, watchful, with strange appetites. Females eat their eggs. Strong males build bubble nests, fortresses against mother hunger. All are selectively bred — like you, daughter — for…
dark angel (from calvary) by eve packer all you’ll ever be is a one-nite stand says my mother, at the holiday party i am throwing, in front of my ex- husband, son, & a friend-friend, i take the Courvoisier…
Daughter by Marjorie Maddox Always, I have grieved this day. Gone and not-gone. Your silence, thick, betrays. Always I have grieved this day. Ghost that turns your face. Promise a song forgone. Always I have grieved this day. Gone…
Gifts by Patrice Boyer Claeys From Mother: a crystal bowl—sleek sides tapering to weighted base lead-heavy, incised, its clean design bright on the counter. For condiments, she said. Her aim was to emboss time, add pleasure to both guest…