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...
This Land by Chloe DeFilippis
“This Land” by Chloe DeFilippis On a farm in Lakewood, New Jersey, my father, a little boy, visits his paternal grandparents. They are immigrants, speaking broken English to the family and yelling Italian commands at the dogs. Their land is filled with food: watermelons, peaches, raspberries, blackberries, grapes, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, chickens, rabbits, and a goat or two. My father runs...
Manifest Destiny by Kirin McCrory
“Manifest Destiny” by Kirin McCrory It is Man’s natural state to expand his boundaries past the land that has been granted him by the immediate moment. Give a man an acre and he will fill it, and want two. Give him two and he will break those, and need three. It is the nature of Man to bound and be boundless, and the West seemed...
Blackbirds by Karen Heuler
“Blackbirds” by Karen Heuler When my grandparents immigrated, they were very poor and lived for a time near a park with some of their children (it would be years before the whole family could be together). My grandfather went to the park at evening to catch blackbirds for dinner. I guess they ate blackbirds where he came from and it was...
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?
Recent From Waves
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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