Dayna Patterson Gertrude on arte materna Published in MER 21 Note: The poem is published as an image to preserve formatting. Dayna Patterson is a Thea-curious recovering Mormon, fungophile, macrophotography enthusiast, and textile artist.…
Browsing: Poem of the Month
Doralee Brooks Hips —After Lucille Clifton/Patricia Smith My hips hold me on weak knees and unsteady ankles as I pull spiky weeds like needles from the side of the house wearing Michael’s leather work gloves. He tells me to…
Glenis Redmond Setting the Table Mama hands me fork, spoon and knife as she circles the table I follow her lead. Learn what comes around goes around. She demonstrates how to fold the napkins and where the drinking glasses…
Natalie Solmer I Am a Great Lake My youth was Everclear spilling slicking the table, its decks of cards, the phones that didn’t exist in our pockets or hands but Euchre. We learned it in school playing in our…
Sarah Browning Borrowing Happiness from Tomorrow It’s so dry this year the sycamores are shedding their enormous leaves, palms of crackle and nerve littering the yard mid-August, while exhaust from futuristic mowers the city hauls from rec center to…
Jacquelyn Grant Brown For Black Mothers Who Can’t Consider Sleep Cuz the World Still Ain’t Safe Enuf Her son makes it home +++safely after the late shift only to find her there +++again, twisted deep into the contour her…
Genoa Yanez-Alaniz Severing Maria In the photo she texted her excessive and carmine uterus — sits inside a sterile dish Her motherhood noduled — dead-fleshed and disposed severed limb of life once divining deity of Coatlicue — vigil of body…
Julie Cyr Leda in the Gulf after the painting by Adam Miller When Deepwater Horizon exploded, Leda’s baby latched on as the waves became slick, the film refracting light into a false rainbow. Leda sat naked on a rock while…
Eileen Cleary Leaves & Blooms Soon, April. And those of us who’d frozen our fingers clothespinning children’s outfits into brightly colored popsicles, or who’d shoveled snow just before the town’s plow pushed the icy streets onto our driveways, or…
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…