At the Yoga Shanti Class for Cancer Survivors by Cheryl Buchanan
“At the Yoga Shanti Class for Cancer Survivors” by Cheryl Buchanan We stand in Mountain Pose, Tadasana, a giant step back with the right. Bend the left leg, left thigh parallel to Mother Earth. We lean, prayer-hands connected. The Sanskrit Yoga gives us “yoke,” of the self and the divine. We look like any class, but for the socks and headwraps, We need to minimize exposure among the diagnosed and staged. Feel...
Crone Hands by Molly Howes
“Crone Hands” by Molly Howes Her large hands bear bony knuckles and uneven, cracked fingernails. An array of rounded patches holds the history of warts. Thin scars line her fingers, the result of working with too much speed and not enough caution. Her hands are functional, not things of beauty. When she was a child, their unloveliness stood out more. By her teens, her hands resembled an ancient witch’s: worn...
The Pink Hairbrush by S.J. Eaves
“The Pink Hairbrush” by S.J. Eaves Wear your hair long and straight and hanging to your waist. Brush your hair one hundred times a night with the pink hairbrush until it glistens like silken dark thread. Let lovers tangle fingers in your hair, whispering words of appreciation, some of them lies. Set your pink hairbrush on your dresser beside your cinnamon scented perfume. Now that your daughter is small,...
My Skin Is Not Enough to Keep Me Warm by Beverly Lafontaine
“My Skin Is Not Enough to Keep Me Warm” by Beverly Lafontaine The sky is thick and heavy with clouds. A neighbor’s dog barks. A yelp from a cartoon., Behind closed eyes I see his body shudder with every bark, A car roars its presence, eager not to be ignored. Never complete silence. In this building, something always whirs, simpers. Walls moan against the weight they’ve borne for years. Water’s ceaseless...
When They Ask About My Face by Nancy Carol Moody
“When They Ask About My Face” by Nancy Carol Moody I will say something about snow, the skittered tracks of a hare just prior to the hush I will say wind bores salt into sea-boards, taut rope burns a furrow, leaf rust in spring autumns elms Hoarfrost bit by hob nail meadow after the scythe the dory’s barnacled hull a peppermint held too long against the palate When they ask about my face, I will say...
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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