On the Need to Re-establish Sovereignty Over My Own Heart by Trina Porte
“On the Need to Re-establish Sovereignty Over My Own Heart” by Trina Porte because the city machines hum even if they do not sing because the heart is actually made of muscle because the silver in my hair will one day be spent because the sun will rise on the day i am no longer married just as it will each day after ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here ...
The Last I Saw Mitsou by Karin Cecile Davidson
“The Last I Saw Mitsou” by Karin Cecile Davidson The last time I saw Mitsou, she was crying into an embroidered handkerchief that belonged to my mother. Mother believed in things that lasted. Linen, perfume, clothbound books. Newlyweds, Mitsou and I lived in the fifth-floor walkup. Small rooms with enormous views. Below us, the courtyard, mottled with pale brown stones. Our windows faced the pianist,...
Sleeping Under Snow by Susan Austin
“Sleeping Under Snow” by Susan Austin The gate is open so do what you may. All I ask: leave what remains wild wild. Be kind to the thistle. Of all the lotus flowers raining upon the Buddha that day, all the bodhisattvas– there must have been a weed or two. I feel 10,000 years old. I give back all your wars. As for mine, it was futile trying to out-swim a tsunami. Virginia, I put riverstones in my coat...
Patience by Mary Elise Bailey
“Patience” by Mary Elise Bailey from “Songs for Spring” I curl around the bulb of a strange blue flower, its nascent lines, in darker blues, delphic and hidden, like a cross between a wish and a map no one can read. I wait for the leftover snow to melt, last year’s grass, still tinted green. I wait for the lines to reveal their intentions, to thicken, to ripen, as the ground slowly unfolds its...
Doors by Dawn Banghart
“Doors” by Dawn Banghart Each morning can start different or like this. Each morning can be an open door. Forget the coffee, forget the shower if you could forget responsibilities right now where would you go after tugging open the door? Nothing is needed, not even your shoes leave them, laces untied, lights off. Outdoors you will find a predawn sky a faint brightness in the east with one airplane coming or...
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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