Halloween Issue: Volume III

Concealer

I do not need the excuse of a holiday 
to don my favorite costume.
I smear on my war paint,
ready to battle any who dare
to mistake me for someone weak.
I deftly blend away flaws 
with the flick of my brush and a well-rehearsed smile.

I parade around with a bold red lip, 
the trail of my tears 
concealed by full coverage foundation. 
Nothing is more perfect than my smoky eye
except the ease with which I seem to
have it all together. Wouldn’t it be nice 
if you did too? 

Ever efficient, I have reduced the time
it takes to put on my disguise. Nothing
requires much of me anymore. Before long, 
even I am not sure where the costume ends and I 
begin. Alone at night I look at my face
rubbed off on the towel
and weep at what remains.

Erin Mount

Laid Bare

Motherhood has
Asked me to
Show up differently
Knowing I am not perfect

Maybe all the things I thought 
Achievements would give me
Sat waiting patiently 
Keeping time until I was ready 

Making me realize on my own 
A lie nestled deep in my heart
Selling the false promise that
Keeping it together is the goal

Messy, marvelous motherhood 
Allowed everything to come undone 
So there I was—laid bare
Kind of like a rebirth

My very own self unspooling
After so many years 
Showing me how to be
Kinder, softer, slower 

May our children see us 
Authentically living 
Singing and praying and laughing
Knowing they have permission, too

Because when mothers are fully alive 
Anywhere 
Revolution takes place 
Everywhere 

Megan Hogg

Masking

def: 1. Covering with the intent to hide

At the time, I didn’t know
the official term for my son dissolving 
in rage once we walked out
the preschool door. His body 
slack, feet dragging
against the pavement as I cajole
him into his carseat.

“You’re his safe space, Mama!” 
the online forums chorus.
My family protests when I voice
any concerns—”Look
at that eye contact, he’s so smart, why
are you worried?”

2. Special use—high-masking: Able to conceal symptoms from the world
despite the turmoil underneath.

If I share the diagnosis, I’m met with raised eyebrows
and tilted heads. Really? He seems so
normal. How do I tell them normal
is a meaningless word, that I no longer measure
him with milestone charts. The galaxy
of his mind doesn’t need a container, just––
sometimes it’s hard. I don’t want attention, 
for him or myself. I just want grace. 
I just want you to know how hard we’re working,
to forgive us when the cracks do show. 

3. Special use–unmasking: The work of being yourself. To exhale.

Did you know autism is usually genetic? Did you know
many parents discover they’re autistic after
their kids are diagnosed? Did you know
I’m afraid to say the words, to affix the nametag to my chest,
but there’s a strange comfort in reading the lists of traits
and seeing my own reflection? 

I unmask on the inside, breathing 
through my social arrhythmias, the neural wiring
strung through my DNA like beads on a secret 
friendship bracelet.

Lorren Lemmons

I wore a mask

I wore a mask to
go with my milkmaid Halloween costume,
clear out my pores before bed,
and prevent the spread of a virus.

I wore a mask to
hide my feelings of shame,
display happiness when I didn’t feel it,
and be friendly at a new school to make friends.

I wore a mask to 
a masquerade party in college,
a girls’ spa night,
and when my crush called me the wrong name
during high school PE. 

Months ago I wore
my last mask.
I still have the impulse
but choose to embrace
my feelings instead 
of hiding or protecting. 

Valerie Slaybaugh

On Display

My son wears his Batman mask to the grocery store, 
to check the mail,
to preschool.
It’s cracked in the middle, held together by Scotch tape and the sheer determination of a four- year-old.
“I saved the day, mama!” a confident declaration as he floats down the sidewalk.  

He wears it, proudly, shielding his humanity only in order to fly. 

I wear my mask to the PTO meeting,
to brunch,
to counseling.
It’s cracked in the middle, held together by undereye concealer and undeserved grace. 
“Will you save the day, mama?” the question I never know how to answer.

I wear it, trembling, shielding my humanity, only in order to survive. 

Karen Miller

Postpartum Mask

Her mask
is a smile 
stretched thin
so thin
but she keeps it on
as the children clatter
and chatter.

She keeps it on
as she removes spiky bones 
from angry chicken corn soup.

She keeps it on
as she removes dead cucumber sludge
 from the pouty fridge.

But in the shower
she exhales
peels off her mask 
lets her tears
mingle with steam.

Reem Faruqi

It’s called no makeup

Which one will she choose today? 

The loving, patient mother 
or the worn-out, stressed-out, 
get-me-out mom. 

There’s the raging, liberal
feminist or the meek and mild, 
looks-like-she-goes-to-church lady. 

Does she feel 
like a perfectionist 
or a procrastinator? 

Maybe the woman who is trying 
to embrace her age or the girl 
that doesn’t want to grow up. 
 
She can’t pick.
She is all 
and none of them.

They stare down at her 
from their places on the wall
but today she walks right by 

and goes out without a mask 

which may be the scariest choice of all.

Michelle Windsor

In case you missed it, Volume I is here and Volume II here. Thanks for reading! Our next regular Issue will be out December 1!