Brian Clements A poem about mothers might contain a list of battles, homes, and film worlds where mothers appear, might comprise all instances of mothers of pearl, of invention, of babies and all wars, might list their unacknowledged legislation…
Browsing: Poem of the Month
Kimberly Ramos Reflection, But Shuffled When night slips into my bed and once again / the world is a place with no edges / I remember you are my first homeland / You, Missouri girl of cattle and birthing…
Abby E. Murray Heirloom I’m driving while talking to my eight-year-old about how even good people can be jerks sometimes and there’s a pause then she asks from her booster seat in the back but how come you’ve never…
Sherine Gilmour Tired Parent Wanting Poem I want to be in a hot tub filled with macaroni and cheese. I want to be sleeping alone in a large bed. I want to be surfing the Internet for new shoes,…
Ingrid Andersson Nova Stella I knew from the out-of-the-blue lull that can befall hard labor, bestowing sleep, that she was fully dilated: I pronounced her complete. The woman roused, turned dilated eyes to me and said—with blinding depth…
Danielle Jones A Love Poem Without Subtext Because sometimes the best way to say a thing is to say it: a river is as wide as a river, a knife as sharp as a knife. My love for you…
Maria Mazziotti Gillan Snow Falls Thick outside the windows of Saint Marguerite retreat house. If only my mother had not died more than 20 years ago, I’d call her, tell her, my practical, no-nonsense mother, to stop working…
Chelsea Fanning Virgin Mary as Teakettle Praise be to you, spattered with chicken grease and garlic fat, the cerulean of your enamel like a blue mantle, sanguine in its austerity. Down your throat holy faucet waters pour, impregnating your…
Tamara L. Panici Mama’s Lessons on Sarmale Uită-te, to make sarmale, you must understand the difference between wanted and unwanted. The key being a perception, a human invention. Do not forget. You are both wanted and unwanted. Seen…
RaShell R. Smith-Spears A Writer Speaks of Lineage My foremothers were magic. Their nimble fingers squeezed syntax into cauldrons of rhythm and rolled juju across pages that glared with our erasure; they poured images into white spaces defined by…