What Sets Her Apart, Part II By Tania Pryputniewicz
“What Sets Her Apart, Part II” by Tania Pryputniewicz Looking at Käthe Kollwitz, Women and Art, UC Davis In Raped, trampled leaves, vines. Käthe left one bloom intact. Black center tethers one unified petal. Viewer stands at girl’s bare feet, skirt taut over thighs, white flare where naked breasts disintegrate under sun’s sudden path unobstructed...
What Sets Her Apart, Asks Jayne, After Reading Another Guinevere Poem For Me In Massachusetts by Tania Pryputniewicz
“What Sets Her Apart, Asks Jayne, After Reading Another Guinevere Poem For Me In Massachusetts” by Tania Pryputniewicz (Poet to Jayne) The company she keeps: Arthur, his sorcerer sister, their bastard son. Merlin. Her view of the rain stippled Severn, orchard’s apples rinsed silver by dawn, the blue smoke of burning peat. Hair framed by candleflame, cobalt iris of eyes,...
Won’t You Be My Valentine by Elizabeth Hoover
“Won’t You Be My Valentine” by Elizabeth Hoover By now you are just the space my lover touches me around, his care unwittingly conjuring you. You left an opening to talk to me—your voice speckles through—but I miss you when I feel unknowable, a tongue too swollen to tell. My body is a dream I once had of freedom, a foreign thing that eats silver and loves spiders. How can I tell my lover of my craving for...
What We Talk About When We Talk About Father Rucker by Cheryl Buchanan
“What We Talk About When We Talk About Father Rucker” by Cheryl Buchanan Kim says, It’s like I’m still suspended, when Jenny asks her to recite it. Each year it’s harder to believe. Which doesn’t mean they can’t remember. Leigh keeps talking about horses, their wide infantile eyes. Kim brings old photos, where even grown-ups look so starchy, squeaky clean. Like those school uniforms he stuck his hands up...
My Brother by Katharyn Howd Machan
“My Brother” by Katharyn Howd Machan My brother lives in a box of cigars. Each day every day he lifts the lid to peek at the world and hopes the world won’t notice. Bristles grow on his face and throat. He smells, fears soap. He never throws his loose hairs away but carefully keeps them, dirty and dark, in the teeth of a green plastic comb. Long ago he spent years committing incest. I survived but we never...
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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