The Daughter Walk by Sheila Bender
“The Daughter Walk” by Sheila Bender For Kathryne Kent We live on a circle, our mothers’ houses just to the west of our own. We carry casseroles to them, newspapers, print outs of family email, prunes to stew, brooms to sweep out the corners. Our feet crunch over their crushed gravel driveways as the sun rises behind us, sets in front of our eyes. ____________________ Share your response to this...
Honey by Margaret Chula
“Honey” by Margaret Chula I dream that I visit Mother in the last days of her life as she lies in bed naked, comfortable being naked as she never was when she was alive, her back tan and supple like Katherine Hepburn’s in The Philadelphia Story and I’m naked too as we compare bellies—how our fat is below our belly buttons, not above like a shelf that can fold over things and hold them fast, and she looks down...
Poem for My Mother by Mary Elise Bailey
“Poem for My Mother” by Mary Elise Bailey There’ll be no cups of coffee here, no rituals, no book-talk—this time, even our voices will be new. There’ll be no mother-daughter, here, where memory has slipped away and hidden, like a stubborn child we won’t follow: let her go. Just give us a goldfinch, somewhere not too distant, a bright shade of blue, our feet together, walking a path whose details we won’t...
Tissue by Berwyn Moore
“Tissue” by Berwyn Moore for my mother, Connie Moore As though to convince us she’s still game, my mother pulls from her coat pocket a lemon, blue with mold, and tosses it, a perfect serve, to the ceiling. Her eyes glimmer, for just a moment, and she’s back on the court, thirty-love, muscles poised to swing, but the lemon thuds to the...
Windy by Annita Sawyer
“Windy” by Annita Sawyer I was born at Winter Solstice on a mountaintop. I came out howling with the wind. “Here’s Windy,” the shout went up, while my dear Mama cried. Old Mrs. Dooley cleaned me off with freezing handfuls of white flakes. My blood showed scarlet on the snow. Once they’d bit and tied the cord, Mama herself held an icy ball against the knot. All the sheepskins, wool coats, down quilts they...
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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