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...
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...
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