Birth Marker by Gerda Govine Ituarte
“Birth Marker” by Gerda Govine Ituarte Newborn son two days of life tattoo needle dips into ink and his ashes burns “ADAM” on to her arm skin stings babies gone from here sing lullabies to her. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Gerda Govine Ituarte Artist Statement: Her work appeared in The Altadena Poetry Review Anthology, Coiled Serpent, Journal of Modern...
Movement by Deborah Staunton
“Movement” by Deborah Staunton I watched her eyes as they focused on the screen, her head, mannequin still, her lips a strained line. her body, motionless, mimicking my tiny lifeless unborn baby, willing her to move, just the flick of a finger, the drop of a shoulder, a barely discernible breath, just one sign that the small form on the screen could somehow reciprocate, the gift of movement, any movement....
Birthday by Shelley Blanton-Stroud
“Birthday” by Shelley Blanton-Stroud “No,” the doctor says when I ask, “Is everything all right?” His shiny bald head rises between my wide-spread knees, a perfect red balloon over the ball of my belly. Like a movie, I think, Demerol having its poetic effect. Numb below the waist, foggy above the neck, I watch grim-faced professionals race around the fluorescence, like ants disturbed, rolling machines,...
Wanting by Molly Beer
“Wanting” by Molly Beer The boy in purple moonboots thumps up to the gate howling “¡Mamí!” for hello. My boyfriend— “Mommy” to this orphan boy who knows no men—avoids my eye. We first came to this hogar, to Ecuador, to teach English: I want; you want; the boy wants; we all want. We were not expecting, or wanting, babies. We were not ready for such gaping need, for hunger at once wholly repulsive and...
At the Abortion Clinic by Katharyn Howd Machan
“At the Abortion Clinic” by Katharyn Howd Machan White poinsettias, drained of all their blood, adorn the waiting room table. Walk in, take a seat, pick up a magazine. On its cover pose a man and woman laughing into a book. Glance at the pictures on the walls. Study the frames, the webs of dust clinging to the corners. Near the window stands a Christmas tree draped with silver tinsel. You remember your...
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