Driving Home by Melissa Grossman
“Driving Home” by Melissa Grossman She haunts me, this young woman I drove home one evening. Wan with hollow cheeks and mussed blond hair that fell over her face, she kept me captive in my car, told stories about the room she rented in a big house where no one talked to her. She stared at a box of Girl Scout cookies on the floor by her feet, so I gave her one. Watched her from the corner of my eye, hold it to her...
Kitchens by Michel Wing
“Kitchens” by Michel Wing Bread cut in thick slabs, warmth pooling the butter. Swirled peaks of meringue, the lemon tart, sweet. Dinners of simple leftovers, always enough for one more. The kitchens of childhood friends opened wide for me. I entered hungry for mothering, left full-bellied, whole. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Michel Wing’s Artist...
Fat Girl by Melissa Grossman
“Fat Girl” by Melissa Grossman I carry the weight of being a fat girl. I bear the indelible sledgehammer taunts: my brothers call me “tank” people say, “how beautiful” I’d be if I “just lost weight.” I wear the weight like battle armor, swallow my anger. I carry the raw egg of my future on a spoon. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Melissa Grossman’s...
Safety by Kimarlee Nguyen
“Safety” by Kimarlee Nguyen I do not know where I can go. When I was eleven, I climbed to the top of the concrete shed in the backyard and looked down. The dirt was in a pile a few feet below me but I imagined it as the end of a deep, deep valley. I was wearing a hand-me-down dress from my cousin who is much skinnier than I was (or ever will be) and the elastic waist cut deep into my stomach. I pulled down...
Ordinary Sophie by Karen Heuler
“Ordinary Sophie” by Karen Heuler I don’t need to stand out in a crowd. The others do, of course; they want to be special. No one who “wants” to be special is special. The special want something specific. I find wanting to be repulsive; the neediness drags people down, puts weights on their legs; they can’t get free of it. I exist; I touch things; I move on. I am 16 and no one else in my family is 16 right...
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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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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