Issue 32

April 2026

The Writing Prompt Asks, “When were you last afraid?”*

as though I’m not a mother. As though my heart
nested still and safe between my own ribs 
instead of ever-splitting, held in tension 
between the three lives I channeled 
into this world of assault rifles and microplastics.
As though my cortisol didn’t run so high that relaxation
might trigger an adrenal crashout, my limbs liquid
without fight-or-flight yanking me through my days. 
As though I don’t lie awake each night examining
my actions like a forensic scientist, tracing errors forward 
into future resentments, polished bright for holiday dinners.
How I stumble under this weight. How I’d atrophy without it. 

*From The Wrong Way to Save Your Life by Megan Stielstra

Lorren Lemmons

Phone Calls I Make After My Kids Go To Bed

Tucked in, finally - 
my three kids, safe from 
the world’s horrors  
At least for today 

I pick up my phone 
and make three phone calls 
like I do most nights  
after my kids are asleep 

The numbers I call 
night after night,  
always send me to voicemail  
but that’s my fault, for calling so late 

I would have called earlier 
but I was kissing foreheads, 
bandaging knees, baking cookies,
reading storybooks, reciting prayers 

So I call after my kids are asleep.
I call and leave messages, again, 
in a voice that can only be named 
Fed Up Mom Rage 

I say, Mr. Senator, how about 
we stop protecting the evil and the corrupt?
Instead, how about we punish the
men who decide to hurt children?

Mr. Representative, how about 
we stop killing peaceful protestors? 
Instead, how about you grow a spine
and speak out against the madness?

Men in charge, how about 
we don’t keep food from the hungry 
and use starvation as a malicious political pawn?  
Instead, can we defy that inhumanity?

Elected leaders, how about 
we don’t stay silent when racism 
and sexism and ableism run wild? 
Instead, could we stand for something better? 

I say, I say, I say, I say. 
I teach my children another way
Every day, I show them a different path  
because it is mothers who turn the tides.  

I might be a fed up tired mom,
but if the men in charge of this country 
had half the strength of a fed up tired mom
I wouldn’t be making these phone calls 

Breeann Adam

Beautiful

i
I kiss my daughter’s feet, soft and broad
thank you for these feet, this tummy
these strong legs and arms… and so it goes on
reinforcing her appreciation of her little body
so full of songs and sass and bubbling energy

She will not be delicate like her grandma
she will flow in muscled hills and bends
like her Mama, never fashion’s friend

ii
Stretchmarks rise like flames over my belly
when she sees them she tells me she was there
in your tummy, as if I need reminding
that I am somehow hers, she mine

iii
She sees me return sweat flushed from runs
she thinks pilates is an invitation to balance
on my planking back, she mimics deep squats
and grunting deadlifts in the dusty attic

She cooks we with me, all kinds of food
and sees me eat at a table full of love
she helps me grow tomatoes, picks
ripe berries until her face is mauve

She sees me sit at the lake, tummy
softened into folds. Unmentioned,
like the lines on my sun loving face
she has seen the joy I take in living

iv
I feel the grief of years it took to separate
my value from my weight
my face, my body
tearing words and pictures from my head
bleeding as I wondered if I was wrong
to want more
for me, for her
for you

v
she will not hear me be unkind to my body
will not watch me diet or be invited to join
or hear us talk about people like their outside
makes them more or less worthy of respect

I hope we can define beauty for her
before the rest of the world does
and then I held you
and the world was so much more
beautiful 
than before 

Jessica Hanke

Age Of Attraction & The Attention Economy

Sardined against the neighborhood bar, my husband 
and I chat with Chuck, the Coors Light-slugging man
nestled to my right. Chuck tells us about his torn bicep,
his wife Kathy, the daughter whose boyfriend just got 
a vasectomy. We chat about Leo’s mustache (semi-attractive), 
his secret to a 30-year marriage (don’t cheat), 
how much money he’s saved for retirement (not enough).

Over truffle fries and overpriced pints, I bring up 
the Age of Attraction and ask if he’s seen the show. 
He hasn’t, but he’s quick to discuss his preferred age gap. 
The group chat thinks I’m crazy, but they don’t know 
Chuck like I do, can’t smell the lonely mingling 
against stale beer, the way the lines around his mouth 
spiderweb into the sunken shape of sorrow. God knows

it’s an attention economy these days. Little dings dancing
for hits of dopamine. So much haggling over the heart’s
real estate. The skin pulled over Chuck’s knuckles is
peeling slightly, and I want to know the last time he felt 
the gaze of someone’s sun. Chuck wouldn’t mind 
a younger woman as long as she got his movie references
and knew how to roast a chicken dinner. He’s not opposed 
to an older lady, either. Kathy’s already got him by six years, 
anyway. 

Chuck thinks it’s cool that I’m a writer, but he doesn’t know 
I’ll go home and puke up a poem about him. All the ways 
we rub elbows with each other's tidy lives. The things 
that don’t matter and all the ones that do. 
Someone to come home to. Good health and a good backyard.  
Melted stars poured into a frosted glass. It doesn’t matter 
your age. We’ll fall in love with anyone who listens, any stranger 
who dares to turn their head and offer up hello. 

Jillian Stacia

Middle-Aged Women Are Winning

Fine print ripples - shimmery and slippery as fish fading in and out of focus.
Leaving us peering through clarity-lenses to catch the swimming letters.

Whittled into not mattering for wrinkles and white hair.

It’s in our older years, that we’re considered in decline.

But, in reality, we are hitting prime.

We’ve inherited the strengths ignited by females before us

fighting with flameless fire and forging paths that were lined with shattered glass.

Being swept under the rug, is not a life to live.

Being old is a prize to win and will never be a crime

We’re resilient and we’re witty - with zero forks to give.

We won’t be buried by time or men who become blind –
we are the foundation and inspiration for the women in our wake.

Coley

When the Mother Sits Down

When the mother sits down,
children cluster around,  
thrilled that’s she’s finally stilled.  
Not hustling or cleaning, 
not bustling or scheming, 
nor grinding wheat berries in mills. 

The children discover 
their now-sitting mother, 
and bring her their books to be read.
They can sit on her lap, 
or nurse while they nap, 
while older ones climb on her head. 

She’s not doing laundry, 
or dishes, or baking, 
or picking up toys off the floor. 
She’s not folding diapers, 
or sweeping the kitchen, 
or kicking the cat out the door. 

The mother might think she’s 
not getting much done, 
the mother might sit with a frown.  
But the children, her treasures, 
are happy and pleased
when finally, Mother sits down.

Sandra Rose Hughes

Hunger Cues

“Look at your baby’s hands.”
That’s what they tell you,
when you’re in the throes 
of feeding, and rocking, and shushing.
“Their hands will tell you,
their hands will be your clue.” 
Tight-fisted mean hunger 
and sound like desperate cries, 
while wide open and relaxed 
mean full, peaceful—satisfied. 

What about me?
“Look at your hands.”
White knuckles, cracked skin—
hard work and grit—
betray a truth buried down deep. 
A famished soul, 
bottomless, cavernous need.
I do not cry,
but my hands don’t lie. 

Corina Cater

Unexplained Secondary Infertility

Last spring I planted zinnias, was promised pom pom puffs 
of neon pink, yellow, orange. Watched rays radiate across my yard, 
determined a fully sunny spot, plunged cracked hands into enriched soil, 
filed black crescents from beneath my nails, and waited.

Watered, tended, weeded, whispered affirmations. Still, the roots 
never took. Blooms browned; stems dripped, drooped, and dropped.
Behind their slow death, roses donned scarlet lipstick. To the left, 
white clusters of snowball viburnums swayed like a wedding dance.

I dug the zinnias out on a Monday under evergreen pines, held back 
my tears. Watched the garbage man haul them away the next day 
along with empty juice boxes and tests with one pink line. The barren
spots in my garden a reminder of what was supposed to be easy. 

Alyssa Silvester

A Shot in the Arm

I refuse to give up. How can I
when the teenaged boys at my 
congregation sing in worship and 
then go shovel driveways for the elderly? 
They get paid in hot cocoa. They take 
breaks to hurl snowballs at each other. 
Their laughs, deepening voices 
on the cusp of adulthood, carry through the air
like so many snowflakes. How the sound
buoys my heart, reminds me of a good 
and full beauty everywhere I look.
In the middle school pick-up line, younger 
siblings hang out of sunroofs and play 
rock, paper, scissors. Their mamas hang on
to their little legs so they won’t fall 
when the car scoots forward. One little girl 
has a drooping ponytail, her sparkly hair bow 
gone wonky after a day of play. She wins with rock 
and her eyes are bright with victory. Yes, 
I’ll keep going. I’ll keep loving. 

Rebekah Warren

Answering “How are you?” During a PMDD Episode

I say “I’m just fine and dandy.” 
But what I really mean is 
My brain becomes a stranger during my luteal phase 
And I want to 
Run / scream / hide 
From the world 
Take on a new name and add 
A different personality 
So I don’t tear off my 
Skin
Or pluck out the pieces 
Of my soul that make me 
Me 
I’m not dandy, I’m a stranger to 
Myself 
And that is not fine 
It’s like the claws of a monster 
Control my mind
No escape in sight
Just reality that’s too much too handle 
So 
“I’m fine and dandy.” 

Taylor Epperson

Mirrors

You never see yourself in the mirror, 
yet you’re always beautiful. 

Try as you might, even your highest tippy toes 
can’t get you above the sink to snag a glimpse 
You get dressed each day
brush your teeth
trust your mom to do your hair
and yet 
you never see it for yourself

You put on a dress 
and immediately exclaim 
you look beautiful. 
You don’t need a mirror to verify it
You’re wearing something you like
So you just know

You go to school 
and affirm to your other mirror-less friends 
that you like 
their dress
or their headband 
or their tennis shoes

Mirrors aren’t bad
You’ll ask for one some day 
or your tippy toes will finally 
make you tall enough
And that’s okay
I’ll answer “yes” 
and “look at you!” 
with zero shame. 

But I hope the confidence doesn’t go away
Choosing what you like, 
and knowing you’re beautiful 
before you even check to see

Anna Dickson

Overall, I’m Okay

after Maria Giesbrecht

with not knowing what’s 
happening in the news, 
with not knowing what’s 
trending in brows. 

I’m fine with Crocs, 
cold pizza, and cracks 
of consternation 
between my brows. 

I’m okay with no 
makeup, no scales 
in my house, and Bacon 
and Egg McMuffins. 

I’m okay if I never hear 
the words, sorry I can’t, 
I’m on a diet or let’s be bad! 
about ice-cream again. 

Rebecca Marie

Where Does the Light Live?

She points to her chest, or rather 
inside herself, already learning to trust 

what lives within. Already a luminescent 
existence, this daughter of the moon. 

Already recognizing how to harness 
the radiance, an energy that moves. 

An x-ray shows her beams of light 
shooting through soft tissue absorbed

in my bones. My bones that held her 
for ten lunar cycles, held the secret

stitching together, body to soul—
gravitational pull to her 

celestial nature.

Anna Taylor