I Simply Cannot Tell You
how much I don’t want an 80-page pdf of reflections and prompts. My old friend used to say, “I want that like I want a hole in my head,” and while I don’t think the sentiment holds up, I do think old friends do—long lunches, old-fashioned cherry coke, a long walk with Fleetwood Mac in my headphones. No more meditation apps or printable goal trackers. Preserve my soul from game plans and digital calendars with color-coded task managers. I refuse to make another list—not even a summer bucket list designed to hang on the wall and anguish over as the afternoons slip away beneath the slow swirl of the ceiling fan. Give me only presence. The slow slice of my arms through dark water. Sun-warmed berries bursting violet against my tongue. Blue toenails and skinned knuckles at the water park. One saturated moment after another, a neon bracelet beaded with no pattern-–just the caprice of the next color catching my eye.
Motherhood is Lifelong Disbelief
You’re handed a miracle and you spend your days watching it unfurl. You try to curl your fingers around their tiny finger, nails that formed only months after cells from two people collided. You watch as they suddenly run up stairs like they weren’t immobile last week. You're weak in the knees as they begin to read and put you out of a job. And you sob when they walk into class on their own without looking back. Back home they wrap you in their need at full speed they draw you in and push you away. Launching further each time, watching the tether unwind, you see them float into the space stretching between you. Constellations form behind their eyes and you bear witness to their becoming, willing time to slow, but you know that you know, that you know, this is the beginning of a Holy letting go.
Double-Bag
People don't like change The Trader Joe’s cashier told me as she offered to double-bag my groceries They made the bags stronger she said They don't need to be doubled anymore but some people are still nervous about it so I offer a second bag I haven't stopped thinking About that small gesture The way she gracefully communicated You can take your time coming around to this Your worry can take up space It's okay to take your time Let me double-bag those for you
Outage
The electricity went out again. A pop. Thick condensed black cascades us in and he's screaming one long bellow. My flashlight (phone) finds him first. I light a match, ignite the wick. His body softens one degree, wide eyes scan the room, held in cautious trust. I guide his hands through the taper candle with the iron loop. A grin brighter than the flame. The house glows, shadows dance. Night curls its tendrils around our home, flickers warm our faces, the silent street peers in for a closer view.
Matthew 6:26
My friend begins every morning by feeding her backyard birds. Her day cannot continue until she has filled the feeders with seed, until she has made at least one place in this tired world where the birds can come and be nourished. The gospels tell us God cares for the birds, so how much more will he care for his children? Still, I have never seen a large and heavenly hand stretch down from the sky. What I mean is, enough with the waiting. God’s body is your body. If he cares for the birds with the gentle hands of a woman filling her birdfeeders, how much more will he care for his children with your body, and mine? A handful of seed and a sparrow is one kind of sacred exchange, and here is another: a hungry hand, reaching, reaching— Your own hand, stretching out to fill it, the Creator himself, alive and moving among your flesh and bones.
Poems of One Word or Fewer: An Exposition of
the Principles and Usages of the English Language
i. Sleep (n.) A natural state in many living things not me, reversible, marked by the absence of wakefulness and a wishing for the cell phone’s bell again, again. ii. State (n.) A condition or mode of being, as in your face warm in the early spring sun, a door opening, then closing, the reflection of trees on the window’s skin. iii. Absence (n.) Want, expect, look for: reaching for your hand in the dark, the cold side of the bed. A state of not being present: one body here, the other there. iv. You (pro.) The one I always seem to be speaking to through the windows and doors, one line here, a half-rhyme there, the words meant to conceal, or reveal. As in, always trying to say what I really mean. v. Demonstrative (adj.) Represents a noun, such as the tender skin of my palm, your face on the screen. Expresses a position as near or far, as in, wishing you were here. vi. Wish (v.) Sometimes these blue containers for words escaping the confines of space and time, thought bubbles above my head, your voice in a poem. Perhaps a line—perhaps a perfect rhyme.
Lies I’ve Loved
No one will know It’s just because I’m tired I deserve it
Mommy Makeover
I’d like to augment my reality And nip away the doubts that no longer belong. Tuck my complacency away with the skinny jeans. If you could, fill me, with grace and perspective. Stitch in the conviction of a mediocre white guy. Please, tell me I’m a candidate. Will you have me? Lift me, lift me, lift me, higher.
Danielle Maggiacomo
Writer, lawyer, and mother of 3 living near the beach in New Jersey
Storm Memories
I hope you’ll always remember that time we went for a walk on the trail after dinner, when out of nowhere, the sun covered her eyes, and the sky cracked like an egg, the rain sobbed rivers as we danced down the street to the drum of thunder, hearts beating and electric and wrung wide open. When it was over, we slid on our boots and paraded through puddles, rescued worms, and made gutter boats out of languid leaves. I hope you won’t remember how, later that night, I yelled at you because you left your wet socks on the floor, and you refused to do your homework, and you did not eat your broccoli, even though I served it with a side of processed cheese. I hope you forget the heat of your tears, the teeth of my temper, the toxic thunder of every mother and daughter. We have no need for storms. We always make our own. That is not the point of the story. The point is to remember how we danced.
I Can Handle My Shit
except when The Pretender by Foo Fighters is on the radio/there’s a 2 for 1 margarita special/my ten year old gives me a random hug/the sun sets in a sky with just enough clouds the whole world turns pink/a line breaks in just the right place/the sheets are clean/the neighbor offers my boys Coca-Cola and chocolate cake at 10 a.m/there’s a dog in a commercial /I get to the last page of a good good book
Collision
My daughter bounds into the backseat, all giggles and chatter. I am so sad again, still, but I put on my bravest face for her, for always. She settles in and a quiet comfort takes over, as we wind through country roads that take us home, where I’ve been waiting to arrive to let it all go. Two miles in, I’m startled by an orb in my periphery. Bubbles–she’s blowing bubbles from the backseat and they drift toward me, surround me. The tears I’ve held all day finally cascade but this time they collide with laughter, and isn’t that just life? Aren’t I just human?
Rebekah Warren
Rebekah writes poetry about the earth and her own roots, learning about herself along the way
Pizza Night
Refrigerated glasses full of homemade Rootbeer Sweat drips down the sides Like the tears sliding down my cheeks The pizza comes, Piping hot, and the crust slightly burned Like the edges of my heart My dad grabs a slice and makes a joke So I smile through the tears He can’t change what happened But he can give me this Comfort Laughter Pizza fresh from the oven that melts in your mouth I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, But I know that I’m laughing tonight.
Embracing Gravity
“Embrace gravity as you breathe out." So says the online yoga instructor. I faked my way through her video twenty times, with closed eyes but an embattled mind, before I realized: Death grips don't save you when you're the sinking ship. So I started learning to embrace gravity. As in: Letting my shoulders relax. Or: Letting things fall that I no longer need to hold. See also: Allowing myself to sit with the weight of pain rather than pushing through it. Because: Tensing for the next hard thing is teaching my body to expect it. And: Clenched hands can't plant new seeds without a release. Therefore: I am free to feel my grief. Sometimes bootstrap-pulling is not the cure-all, will not mend. Some hurts need to be allowed to bleed, to rend. Sometimes, dare I say it, things need to bend, break, fall, before they have the strength to grow again. Sometimes the thing that needs to fall, is me. So: I am learning to embrace gravity.
Baptism by Light
I sit in the foyer watching my cat. She frames
herself with light, bathes in it, beams lick her.
The rise and fall of her chest her only movement.
I skim the surface of her sun-soaked stomach,
she turns toward me, purrs. I lay next to her, heart
to hardwood. Let the light wash over me too.
Rainbow dances on the wall behind us, refracted rays
through the lamp’s glass base. Dryer tumbles
in the background, waves rumbling behind us.
My cat? Unconcerned about news cycles,
the world’s upside down spin,
the whiplash of horrors dizzying.
I match
my breath’s
crest
to hers
return
to my body.
Time
Marissa King
Wife, Mom, Architect
The amount of times I was inter.rupted while writing this poem is l a u g h a b l e.
A Song for Summer
Taste buds grow flowers fruit bowls me over. This is the imperative I’m pulling from the pockets of my long-loved, buttery soft jean shorts. They’re just the thing for melting my cares away. This is the sun-seeking salutation for the season that knows tanks are tops. This is howdy, hi, hello to all that is beachy keen, sight unseen, hey, let’s be endless out here.
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
Absolutely in love with this collection. Brava ❤️
Love this summer edition, especially the guest posts!!!