Monthly Archives: March, 2020

Poetry

Jennifer Schomburg Kanke The House of Never Enough 1. Architect I am a brick wall of want she knows she’s not a wrecking ball strong enough to take me down She is the one that built me and in…

Poetry

Tezozomoc Tezozomoc is a Los Angeles Chicano Poet and 2009 Oscar Nominated Activist and has been published by Floricanto Press, Gashes!: Poems and Pain from the halls of injustice, a collection of poetry. He has also been…

Poetry

Jane Yolen Mysteries Birth is not mysterious to the mother whose body is cradle and cafe. Who listens for breath, feels a whale swimming in the sea of her. She sends hand signals against her skin, is rewarded with a…

Poetry

Brad Shurmantine The Big Yard Stunned, still moving in a sick green haze my widowed mom stared at a sea of blueprints and chose the one with the biggest yard, a field big enough to swallow up our pain…

Poetry

Jendi Reiter Broken Family Couch I miss the neighbors who used to jump shirtless on the trampoline in the bramble woods they didn’t own. October, early, the sun is mooning through the fog, translucent disk, surprise of perfect geometry.…

Poetry

Nicola Waldron (29205) there was a woman who lived in a house of wax when she came home from teaching children to speak who had never before spoken she would feel the walls of the house the doorknob to…

Poetry

Libby Maxey Contrafactum “Every house has its particular orchestra.” —Sylvia Townsend Warner in the woods, a bear bell’s chunnering drone the flickers’ enfilade in the garden, a chiming gamelan wind wash in the leaves inside, outside’s company now that…

Poetry

Veronica Kornberg A Daughter Leaves Home You’re moving clear across the country, your first real job, with no idea even how to sew on a button. Last of the packing done, and you hold out a black wool jacket, the…

Poetry

Elana Bell Ruins As a child I loved to be found I slipped into the alley behind my house My mother called and called and I did not answer until I heard the net in her voice The ruins…

Poetry

Melissa Andrés Pressed in Silence My Mother’s arms became a shawl to keep us warm in our aloneness, her smell, not of flowers, but of smoke taped our past against the cold – She is the beauty inside us all…