Remember This by Darlene Taylor
“Remember This” by Darlene Taylor “There’s no certain time to things,” I remembered mama saying as she reached for the canisters of flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and set them on the counter top. She sprinkled water in the flour and seasoned it with a dash of salt and baking powder. She didn’t use spoons. Her fingers were brown, the color of maple syrup with rounded nails. Working hands. She dug into the...
Las Mujeres by Gerda Govine Ituarte
“Las Mujeres” by Gerda Govine Ituarte watch daughters who listen with their eyes whose voices bloom they flower between rain drops weave their lives inside dreams with grandmothers’ breath future awakes in mouth of now. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Gerda Govine Ituarte Artist Statement: Her work appeared in The Altadena Poetry Review Anthology,...
Great-Grandmother Annetta by Lisa Lutwyche
“Great-Grandmother Annetta” by Lisa Lutwyche Once I learned to watch her hands I forgot to be afraid of her whiskers. Twisted driftwood fingers tied with the blue ropes of her veins. Skin like draped patterned silk, or spotted wax, melted, crinkled, folded over sinewy bands. Quick machines, those deft fingers snapped green beans like cold jade, “pop-clink, pop-clink, pop-clink” into a thick white bowl with...
The Suitcase by Rinat Harel
“The Suitcase” by Rinat Harel 1. Lifting the lid, she said, “Bonbons for my girls”; ghosts in her German accent floating about. “Dollhouse table,” my sister declared. “A sofa, and this chair.” Collecting the wrapping paper, I inhaled Granny’s flowery perfume, and imagined her house in London. 2. The drifting desert sand, Mother removes from Granny’s gravestone...
Post-Post-Traumatic Stress by Samantha Lamph
“Post-Post-Traumatic Stress” by Samantha Lamph Trauma is passed down, inherited from past generations like heirloom jewelry or black and white photographs of family we’ll never meet; it is a recessive gene waiting to be expressed. I hear her screaming, that ancient woman. I feel the thrash, the flood of adrenaline that left her soul in ruins yet preserved her body, so we both could survive. In my pulse, she...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
Recent From Waves
-
fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
-
-
-
