Flight Theory by Alison Adair
“Flight Theory” by Alison Adair Gorlice, 1908 ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Allison Adair’s recent poems appear or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Best New Poets 2015, Boston Review, Los Angeles Review, Mid-American Review, Mississippi Review, Missouri Review (Poem of the Week), Shenandoah, Southwest Review, and Third Coast, among other...
The Saint of Memory: The Peas by Linda Ravenswood
“The Saint of Memory: The Peas” by Linda Ravenswood She came from the West where rain measures the hours in drops against the house, where land breaks into great crags along the coast of water. Her high, gothic façade of radio hollowly sings through the sitting room where she’s been waiting against the window panes; it’s raining down the garden rows, and the trellis is beating the overhang like a metronome....
The Button Box by Rebecca Olander
“The Button Box” by Rebecca Olander I loved combing through my grandmother’s box of buttons, picking favorites to keep. I thought it wonderful to say...
Legacy by Carol Smallwood
“Legacy” by Carol Smallwood My grandmother pinned hairpin lace bibs on grandfather’s bathing beauty calendars, crocheted jelly glass holders for Queen Anne’s Lace. Her flour sack scarves—hemmed to look like they had no hems, have hourglass patterns echoing her figure unfamiliar with backs of chairs. As the neighborhood midwife she whispered: “garcon” for a boy, “jeune fille” if a girl to keep such delicate...
No Love Letters by Helen Casey
“No Love Letters” by Helen Casey There were no love letters to my grandmother. She could not read. I would be making it up if I described thin blue sheets of words binding them. Or roses. He was, as she was, from the old country, the man who would be my grandfather. Without money. It was 1919. He came to return a gun he had used. Your children need a father. Mine need a mother. She might have liked more of...
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?
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