Issue 34
June 2026
+9
My Kids Keep Growing And I Think About My Mother
after Mary Oliver
I shake with joy,
I shake with grief.
These two feelings in my body
so much growth
spreading shoulders, missing teeth
ringlets bounce at the base of her neck
like Tigger
through the Hundred Acre Woods.
Spirals swirl in my brain
through a desert of endless rumination.
Addiction genes run deep.
For generations, we’ve numbed
the feelings swallowing
substances delivering an illusion of
control.
calm.
strength.
Yet chaos churns underneath.
My mom
fell
off the bleachers
crashed
into the wall
created
a boundaryless existence
leaving me the weight of e v e r y t h i n g
I inhale
a deep breath filling all of me,
I exhale and let it all go
my shoulders fall from my ears. I sink. I
fall
into perfectly crafted phrases
crash
into colors spread on a canvas.
create boundaries
through color, shape, and punctuation
my body moves through and releases every emotion.
So much housed inside this soft animal
what a marvel she is
feeling everything.
Inspired by “I shake with Joy” and “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver.
The Blessings I Prayed For
are screaming before 7am because he farted in her face and rain pelts our windows on the first day of summer break and Mama can’t play yet because AI won’t unload the dishwasher and breakfast isn’t ready but they’re so hungry. I looked for her chunky baby thighs under the couch but all I found were magnatiles and the missing Monopoly pieces. Instead of a gummy toothless smile, he radiates back at me like a jack-o-lantern. Inside out socks litter the stairs once guarded by baby gates and shoes are tossed like candy at a parade by the back door. But last night my daughter asked for an extra hug before bed because I love you so much Mama and my son is a tornado of affection, whirls right into my arms. I close my eyes, listen to rain plink plink plink, fill my belly with air. Decide I’m ready for summer. They’ll be grown and gone before I can blink.
Parent Teacher Conference
We crouch down to sit at the tiny chairs, set at a tiny table, and your teacher sits right across from us. She smiles brightly, And I notice that the bulletin boards in the rooms are color-coded like a rainbow. You love rainbows. And color. And I think, I hope, I pray that you love school, too. Well, she says. How do you think he’s doing in school? And I pause, because I didn’t expect her to ask us that. Doesn’t she know? Is this a trick question? Are we supposed to be saying something specific? Is there a test coming? I take a breath, and I tell her that I think he’s doing well. She smiles and agrees. She uses the word fantastic. She says that you’re smart. She says that you’re a good friend. She says that you ask her if she needs any help. And as her words come flying out of her mouth, I grab your Dad’s hand, and I squeeze it tight. Right now, it feels so good to know we’re doing something right.
Legacy?
The chainsaw’s jeer never warned, no grinder’s roar alluded to weighty limbs ground, spewed mulch. Towering oak reduced to weed control. An awkward naked sky, crownless. But look… lobed leaves carpeting, roots, wooden hands, gripping earth. Sheered stump, a monument. Will I be an oak? One worthy of remembrance? My love, leaves lingering in my kids’ hearts? My faith, roots grounding these who nursed at my breast? My life, etched rings pointing my saplings onward and upward?
Horror Story
My sister says my last poem was scary and maybe that means I've finally shed my Sunday best, a dress made by someone else. Some days I don’t brush my hair. There is dirt on my knees, but not from praying. Did you know I have teeth? I just learned how to use them. How to bite and hiss and spit out the parts of myself that made me a good little girl.
They Say the Holy Water’s Watered Down
and this town’s lost its faith* I wonder when that happened. Was it slow, like snowmelt sliding under the door, or all at once, like a headline we scroll past and pretend not to feel? Holy water watered down like the milk in cereal bowls when mornings move too fast. Like traditions stretched thin across busy calendars. Like prayer that turns into “Please let us make it on time.” They say this town’s lost its faith. But I’ve seen neighbors leave soup on porches. I’ve seen a ten-year-old ski back uphill because his friend hit a tree. I’ve seen a mother move into a shed just to sit quietly with her own longing. In kitchens that smell like hot oil and potatoes. In libraries that call to remind us our books are waiting. The way your son still calls from the other room when he wants you to witness something not because he needs help but because he wants you there. Maybe holy water was never meant to stay concentrated. Maybe it was meant to be carried out in diluted, everyday gestures a hand on a shoulder, a ride home, a mother learning to let go. I don’t know what else to call that. If the water’s watered down, maybe it’s because it’s been poured out over scraped knees, over doubt, over grief we don’t name. Maybe we stopped kneeling long enough to notice what was still sacred. *lyric from Alex Warren’s Ordinary
Field Day
A faded blue ribbon “first place softball throw” My brother’s name written below He was the same age as my middle son same shade of blonde same craving for speed and adventure Sometimes I can almost see him in my son’s smile sometimes I can imagine his laughter My mom gave me the ribbon tucked under one of my own in red so thin, yet my hands ache under its weight How do we hold memories like these—who has the strength?
Right Bundle Branch Block
In between checking my throat, my ears, and my eyes, the doctor tells me I have a blockage in my heart: a “Right Bundle Branch Block”. She tells me it’s not too serious— how could it be, with a name like that— but that I should get it looked at, and probably lose some weight while I’m at it, just to be safe. I leave the office with a ticking time bomb in my chest, a little lump of alliteration laughing to the left of my sternum, my lazy, languid valve, my bitch ass bundled block. For years, I’ve loved the world. Looked away from every horror, delighted in the dirt despite the dust, the bones buried underneath. Now my heart is shaking her head and throwing up her hands, rolling her eyes like a jilted lover. After the appointment, I take my Right Bundle Branch Block out to lunch. Feed her pasta and pepperoncini. Order dessert to spite the doctor. I know what this old heart needs. A little romance, a little cheese. Something to make her feel alive again. I ask for a glass of champagne, anything to celebrate my tenacious little ticker. Sure, she’s limping a little sooner than expected, but this old girl’s still in the ring. I’m doubling down on my devotion, praying to the god inside the rusted hinge of my chest. I’ll woo my own damn self, write sonnets on my ribcage, buy a bouquet of daffodils. I’ll take my heart between my gnarled hands, and show her she’s still worthy of the fight.
The Problem Is
The problem is The sun invited our school work out here, We both fancy and adore— Poetry, lawn blankets, and budding daffodils. The problem is 5th grade math is habitually avoided, She’s a soul for distracting delights— Birds that chirp, her own stories, distant memories. The problem is Long division demands focus and, I keep pinning her back to the task— Until we both come across a superior symmetry. The problem is The sun felt so satisfying, I happened to bring a book of poems— Remember, we’re both buyers for beauty. The problem is Poetry became the subject instead of multiplying, And she opened up and narrated— ‘How sticks and stones break my bones and words hurt me.’ The problem is An internal nudge coaxed me, I spoke up and asked— Have my words ever hurt you? The problem is She said, Yes. The problem is Because I am her mother, Her soul should be sheltered by me— But my words have hurt her.
Tears, Ticket For One
I wish I was a woman who cried
The woman who cried at commercials,
weddings, dead dogs, dead babies.
My son says, “I didn’t see you cry Mum,”
but wonders why I smash and bang in the kitchen,
why I can’t sit still.
My husband says, “You seem angry.”
My friends say, “You seem angry.”
No one likes the smashing woman,
the banging woman,
the can’t sit still woman,
the tearless woman in front of a corpse.
Wash my face with tears, and I will be clean.
Cleanse me with catharsis and I will mourn.
Let the tears leave my eyes and I will lament.
Let me sit still before the LORD.
Unsolicited Relationship Advice
At risk of oversimplifying I would venture That the primary matter To concern yourself with Is finding someone Who, When the gloom Obscures your view, Takes firm hold of your hand And reminds you Who you are
To Those Who Think They Can: You Won’t Make Us Small
Please try. Push Ozempic our way, call us piggy, lecture us on weights and protein. We will only grow bigger. Strip our rights, legislate our bodies, tell us to stay within our homes’ walls. You still won’t make us small. Cluck your tongue — how we’ve let ourselves go. Build an army of pulled skin, plump lips, protruding cheekbones. Keep us busy, fixing — an attempt to keep us small. Tell us to have more babies, then criticize our stretched bodies. Suggest we smile more so we can’t talk. Seen and not heard, like a well-behaved child. Small. Preach submission, call us woke, angry, the f-word (feminist). Take aim with your arrows of shame, but you won’t make us small. No, we’ll chew your small words and spit them out, watch them bounce off our thick skin and crunch under our feet.
Undeserving
sip sip some more ok fine just the one then i deserve this, I think as I knock it back i don’t deserve her god does it feel good until it starts to feel like a blurry nothing Feelings are meant to be felt 9 months, a sudden stop, an onrush of everything that I walled behind the swallow-that-dulls-the-edges Bitter pill now, a swallow that migrates where have I (or has she) gone? A new self composed with a chord of two strands now three set it down love you deserve their song and they are deserving of the fullness of you
Summer Prayer
May we venture off-trail, muddying our shoes and our fingernails sculpting castles from river clay, marveling at fool’s gold glinting in the dirt. May the carpet sparkle with spilled glitter, strewn about with bits of string and paper. May the kitchen wear melted popsicle juice and smeared peanut butter like face paint, and may I cherish the smudges on the windows. May I let the hours branch and curve instead of forcing them into rigid lines. May I take a sledgehammer to the glass house of my expectations and dance in the confetti of shattering. May I open my hands. May I open my hands.
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Always love the mornings with new PTP issues! Especially enjoyed the summertime poems from Alyssa and Lorren — encouragement to my mama heart at the start of another summer with kiddos. 😊
Incredible, friends! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻