The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith by Katherine Orr
“The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith” by Katherine Orr Like an attic full of books. Like a gymnasium. Like sorrow. Everything is always so big. But I’m not afraid of the silence that follows what I came to say. So instead of talking, I watch my wife work on her bonnets – feathers and flowers, violets, vegetables, birds. All the ladies come to her, now that it’s Spring. * Explosion in the park...
Silence on a June Morning, 1944 by Tracy Davidson
“Silence on a June Morning, 1944” by Tracy Davidson Soldiers lined up in perfect formation beside the egg, its skull cracked, peeled back bit by bit, white matter exposed and discarded. The soldiers move in, drowning themselves in gold treasure. The metal tool enters the fray, scraping up every last vestige of life. Ejected shell casings lie scattered about amid crumbs of debris and puddles of dripped butter....
Spoil of War by Leatha Kendrick
“Spoil of War” by Leatha Kendrick –for the Chibok schoolgirls, and all the girls and women taken Every womb ransacked, every womb wound round with shame’s body, once a studious curious being now bounty of a holy war. Every sacred shift of childhood ripped away leaving ravaged skin, unhinged senses, echoed calls to prayer beat in their ears, the constant wound remade more than daily. All the wombs...
Mothers Who Carry Their Own Water by Gerda Govine Ituarte
“Mothers Who Carry Their Own Water” by Gerda Govine Ituarte When there is no well land is parched mouth dusty skin cracked bloody fingers plant roses Mothers who carry their own water are viewed with discomfort curtains of words fall I don’t know what to say time heals all whispers trail behind like tails a reminder of what could happen to them Mothers who carry their own water live through in under around...
Women’s Voices by Diana Woodcock
“Women’s Voices” by Diana Woodcock Sometimes I listen to Turkish music, Bahar, Kordes Turkuler, even though the tempo’s too fast, too brash, because I need to feel at last a little unsettled, a bit rattled by discordance— the voices of women from Turkish, Armenian, Kurdish borders calling out to me. Language mysterious, but no mistaking their message. Same in every language: absence of love and respect the...
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The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
