Elizabeth Hutchinson Arborvitae Christmas is over. All day it rained and now as the sun is setting, the first fat flakes of snow. Your fever is spiking again. All night the fire inside you raged darkened, flared again. You…
Browsing: Poetry
Caridad Moro-Gronlier For My 21-Year-Old Son, Who Calls Me on The Day Roe V. Wade is Overturned It’s not the ding of a text that comes in but the trill of his ringtone, Landslide, favorite song I refashioned into…
Rebecca Brock Mixed Tapes Is the question, what holds us? Or is the question, what do we hold? In one sitting, my son plays me REM, The Cocteau Twins, Death Grips, Johnny Cash, MF Doom—he pivots genres, eras with…
Rachel Becker Flirting in 23B Oh there were unsuitable men even before your body became alien & ecstatic with children, a bread basket, doughy homily but now you are thirty something (married, suitably) & you haven’t flown alone since…
Erin Armstrong Learning Language ear’ago, Mummy my coffee mug, half filled goes into little hands too big, she takes the handle, tips it, sloshes coffee into the living room carpet ear’ago, Mummy. She smiles tilting the cup toward my…
Jennifer Barber Writing Too Fast, I Write “Thew” for “The” As if you and I commingled +++++++++in the dark and later the same day I give birth to little baby Thew, +++++++++born in winter under a mauve sky. By…
Caroline Beasley-Baker dementia is a ruthless god. my mother says — i wuv you — but can she mean it? i’m uncertain the sentiment is meant for me. the infantilism of the ‘wuv’ a clue — a mis- direction…
E.J. Antonio Geography of the changing body: File cabinets & mirrors 2016 1/ I’ve stopped looking for myself in the mirror. The face of the parent I’ve become to the parents I have startles. The child I was pushes…
Ellen Devlin The Slowdown They watch my slow tucking of napkins under the left sides of plates. They reach around me to get the coffee canister, yank open and slam-close drawers looking for teaspoons, Splenda, the goddamn coffee filters.…
Sharon Dolin I Am Losing My Mirrors I am losing my mirrors, I thought, as one more silver spangle, size of my pinky tip, drops from the gauzy blouse’s hem. I am losing my mirrors, those who loved…