Cheryl Boyce-Taylor The Grand Days of Noho Star for Kathy Engel Dear Kathy I miss our poetry brunches at Noho Star our talks on MFA programs children spouses mothers finances manuscripts submission guidelines— I miss our San Pellegrino flat radish…
Browsing: Poem of the Month
Caitlin Grace McDonnell BAD MOMS I always cry on airplanes. Thought it was the movies. But when I cried at Bad Moms, I wondered if it was the booze. Tiny bottle of Titos and Mr.& Mrs. T. Or maybe…
Laura Johanna Braverman FULL MOON AND GALLOWAYS The farmer shows me a hollowing-in by the iliac crest, skin taut from the weight of the calf. ‘Soon –’ she says, ‘Next week is Vollmond.’ She brings out a box: puncher…
Brenda Cárdenas WHAT A MOLCAJETE HOLDS Despite my drawers full of knives and spoons, cutting boards, spatulas, ceramic ramekins, when I blend spices, I must place them in her molcajete, press the three-generation pestle against cloves to shatter…
Aimee Suzara First Ultrasound of a Trickster What did you sound like, that first time? A flutter: the wings of a furious butterfly, thrum of a colibrí. Twice my heart’s speed, yours. A life-force undeniable. A wild new fish…
Sati Mookherjee MY DAUGHTER THE TREE My daughter was born the year she turned fourteen, the year I was born, her spine rose curving into the tissue of sky, she spurned true for lordotic, posture for pose. I…
Donna Vorreyer MAKING TEA, I REMEMBER A LONG AGO SUMMER Honey hanging from the thickened dipper becomes a stream of spit from my teasing brother’s mouth, summer heat and hose water shimmering the scene becomes my mother’s favorite scrimshaw…
Tamar Jacobs GOOD WHOLESOME AMERICAN THING I sat away from the street on a curb mostly hidden behind a bush to allow them the illusion of independence and I heard people tell them, my sons, 7 and 9,…
Amanda Auchter IMAGINARY SON: WATER I could say there was a flood and my body the boat that kept you safe. But my body was only temporary, and would buckle come morning. I would let you live in each…
Melody Wilson The Smell of Lambing —after a comment by Barbara Drake A friend says she’s nostalgic for lambing, for the smell she loves but will never experience again. I imagine lanolin, grass, the birth of kittens—a scent so narrow…