Issue 16

September 2024

Photo by Megan Sciarrino

Oxygen

No matter how many kids fill your house, 
they’ll fill your hours. Like air—
a gas will expand to fill a container. 
A body will mine its own bones
to feed a growing child. A mother
will strip away everything she thought
she needed to live		and still
live, propelled by purpose. A little god
to serve with wholehearted devotion.
Brittle bones and lank hair, offerings
on the altar, sanctified and sanctifying.
Necessary as the air in her lungs. 

Lorren Lemmons

What I Said (and Didn’t) on a Sushi Date with a New Friend

Will you pass the soy sauce?
Can we pass on small talk? What makes you cry in the shower?
Should we share a sake sampler?
Can I share that my harsh words made my daughter scream on the first day of school?
Should we try the sashimi? 
Can we try sitting on my back porch, watching darkness fall on our naked faces?
Which roll was your favorite?
What’s your favorite way to come back to yourself, to remember you are more than Mom?
Let’s split the check.
I’ll show you all the ways my heart has split open. Will you show me yours?

Alyssa Silvester

Déjà Vu

My daughter’s first déjà vu 
happens at a Wisconsin dairy 
in the middle of nowhere. 

I know this place, she says,
even though we’ve never 
been here before, even though

we’ve never done any of this—
taken this route home 
from the Island, walked hand-in-hand 

down this potholed street, 
counted the trucks from this
fingerprinted window.  

I do not explain to her
how the mind can misfire, 
how familiarity can be false,

how one can remember without 
ever really recalling.
I do not tell her that I feel it, too.

It is August, and I am becoming 
someone I’ve never been, 
taking a route home 

I’ve never taken, standing 
in the potholed street saying 
See? I know this place, 

even though I don’t.
I am scared and brave, 
and I have done many things, 

but I’ve never done this. 
I have been many places,
but I’ve never been here. 

Krista Drechsel

Aging Gracefully 

Every night I go to battle 
with the gray hairs on my head

waging a futile war against 
a regenerating army 

that I’ve tried to surrender to 
tried to make peace with 

but it’s a compulsion, an obsession 
something I can’t ignore 

like the weeds I pass 
on the way to the mailbox 

and pull out by the roots 
on the way back

I don’t mind getting older 
but the aging strands mock 

me in the mirror and removing 
them is such an easy fuck you 

such an easy kill

Michelle Windsor

Synaptic Pruning

The brain prunes past pains
and I’m happy to lose those, 
but what if it prunes
the memory of your toes?

Those ten tiny toes 
that wiggle and wave,
they’re the memory 
I’d most like to save. 

I’m happy to lose 
chemistry, countries, 
and even my shoes.
But those toes, those toes,

and how tiny you are, 
nestled here on my chest. 
I know what it means 
to be idle and blessed. 

Rebecca Marie

New Wings

She blinks up at me, innocent and
waiting for me to protect her.
But this time, I need to give her a push
instead of holding her close.

She doesn’t want to stretch her new wings.
She’s worried it will be
too hard
too boring
too different.

With tears in my eyes, I let her fly.
Because she might not believe it now,
but I know she’s going to soar.

Taylor Epperson

Holding Onto Hope

It’s like air slipping through 
the fineness of a feather.

It’s like standing on the outskirts 
of any half of any whole, 
just reaching for the hem 
of something holy.

It’s like navy on night, 
like cool on morning, 
like sound on sleep, 
like yellow on yolk, 
like new on born, 
like wanting to need,
or needing to want,
it’s like nothing 

and everything 
you could ever actually hold.

This business of hope 
doesn’t have a handle
or corners
or curves.

And yet, 
it’s here.

It’s right here,
like today 
on the porch of tomorrow.

Megan Sciarrino

(S)MOTHER

I have this urge 
to swallow you 
up inside my skin —
this shaking
body suddenly 
preferable
to the messy
madness
of the outside
world. Bone 
of my bone, blood 
of my blood: loving 
you is muscle 
memory. Mothers
make the best
houses. Let me 
build you a city
inside my skeleton,
each vessel a brick,
each vein a victory 
song shouting only
your name. I’d give
you the world,
but what is it offering?
Better to bet 
on the body 
that beats only 
for you. Listen, 
do you hear it? Every
cell says to stay. 

Jillian Stacia

When I asked ChatGPT to roast my Instagram 

Amy Grass