The Tattoo I Did Not Get by Felicia Mitchell
“The Tattoo I Did Not Get” by Felicia Mitchell Bloodroot sends up leaves, angel wings on earthen flesh. A flower comes next. My right breast, hollow, is the opposite of spring. It has bloomed and gone. I look for flowers that grow on the sides of trails, my path a journey. My left breast likes sun, flesh flushing as winter wanes. Its nipple blossoms. Where the sun falls first, a bloodroot will bloom early,...
After the Cut by Mai-Lon Gittelsohn
“After the Cut” by Mai-Lon Gittelsohn I take a shower differently now I used to stand under the shower head a font of water splashing down my back coursing over my breasts now I sit on a shower bench hold a hose in my hand let it spray over my flat chest inscribed now with scars I let the water spray against the pits of my arms prickles teasing numb skin after the cut, what? ____________________ Share...
Daughter, They’ll Use Even Your Own Gaze to Wound You by Beth Ann Fennelly
“Daughter, They’ll Use Even Your Own Gaze to Wound You” by Beth Ann Fennelly 1. Chicago, IL My high school teacher loved that I loved libraries, so she promised she’d bring me to her alma mater’s. One Saturday, we took the train in and she donned white gloves to turn manuscript pages while I roamed the stacks, inhaling that dear dusty library funk. Wait: did I hear footsteps? When I was sure I’d been...
Small Talk at Evanston General by Beth Ann Fennelly
“Small Talk at Evanston General” by Beth Ann Fennelly And what is it you do? he asked, after a moment of silence. My mother was in the bathroom exchanging her dress for the cotton gown. I had the sense that he was asking to fulfill some kind of med school training: Engage the patient’s loved ones in conversation. Five outlandish occupations pinged through my head, all lies. But I knew I shouldn’t mess with...
When You’ve Been Sick for a Time by Susan Austin
“When You’ve Been Sick for a Time” by Susan Austin The surgeon threaded the catheter through my superior vena cava, let it dangle just above my heart. The young assistant scrubbed until I felt like pudding— Strange not to feel pain, only meaty burrowing. Sometimes the catheter rubs and my heart hiccups. When you’ve been sick for a time you give up all your secrets, you give up lies. I liked building puzzles...
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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