Showing posts from October, 2020

The Spot

  By Erin Rhees The Spot Growing inside me, a cluster of cells swirling like minnows. Just a day late, but I'm never late. I crack an egg in our pan and two orange embryos burble together. A sign. Twins. All day I feel full, smugly gibbous. Ten years was all it took. Then the phrase geriatric pregnancy churns in my head and I bubble with fear. But how pleased your father would be. How you shimmered into being, and I decide you are just one, that thought smooth as communion. But then, there it is. That red spot blooming in my garment. I scrub until the water runs pink and think what a relief. I'd be a terrible mother what with my need for solitude, sweet as butter. For gray mornings, turning over for more sleep, slipping quietly into my own oblivion. And what if my love is so paltry so weak, that it pops you like a joint out of place. Better to wring you out, like water down the drain. You, curly-haired, your cry lilting from the next room, your chorus of vowels rising, your mou

Fall Leaves

By Ashlin Awerkamp rustle shiver hiss shake crinkle crackle crunch flake break rake taken away

Subpar Poetry

By Skyler Smith           I read somewhere that children are filled with grace. It’s an overloaded word: “divine sanctification” and “a musical superfluity” are included among its many definitions. But I have a little girl, and I think neither is a fitting description for her. For this creature of squished proportions, this bumbler and thumper, a third designation, “physically elegant,” evokes a chuckle. Even still, grace is the aptest word, and one that comes most frequently to mind when I have observed my crawling child ineffectually clasp wall edges and cupboard knobs to reach the unreachable targets of her fascination: papers or knives or electric cords or pens—all of which I fear I cannot keep from her, since I have also seen her learn, completely independently, the complex movements of crawling, the subtle art of balancing in-place, the finesse of clasping a pea-sized cheese chunk between her index finger and thumb, pinky extended. Raising it to her lips with a mumble I interpre

A Corsair Named COVID

By Patricia Hernon There was a man Who wrote stories - Every day his wife Of thirty years Would come into his study And natter About mundane matters Trying - To get his attention A little recognition Some regard - But he would ignore Her attempts At closeness And intimacy One morning He Yelled "Woman You are smothering me Give me some space." That same day A furtive and stealthy thief Invisible . . . Undetectable . . . veiled Came to visit Today he longs for her touch Reaches out - Into empty Space