Movement by Deborah Staunton
“Movement” by Deborah Staunton I watched her eyes as they focused on the screen, her head, mannequin still, her lips a strained line. her body, motionless, mimicking my tiny lifeless unborn baby, willing her to move, just the flick of a finger, the drop of a shoulder, a barely discernible breath, just one sign that the small form on the screen could somehow reciprocate, the gift of movement, any movement....
Birthday by Shelley Blanton-Stroud
“Birthday” by Shelley Blanton-Stroud “No,” the doctor says when I ask, “Is everything all right?” His shiny bald head rises between my wide-spread knees, a perfect red balloon over the ball of my belly. Like a movie, I think, Demerol having its poetic effect. Numb below the waist, foggy above the neck, I watch grim-faced professionals race around the fluorescence, like ants disturbed, rolling machines,...
Wanting by Molly Beer
“Wanting” by Molly Beer The boy in purple moonboots thumps up to the gate howling “¡Mamí!” for hello. My boyfriend— “Mommy” to this orphan boy who knows no men—avoids my eye. We first came to this hogar, to Ecuador, to teach English: I want; you want; the boy wants; we all want. We were not expecting, or wanting, babies. We were not ready for such gaping need, for hunger at once wholly repulsive and...
At the Abortion Clinic by Katharyn Howd Machan
“At the Abortion Clinic” by Katharyn Howd Machan White poinsettias, drained of all their blood, adorn the waiting room table. Walk in, take a seat, pick up a magazine. On its cover pose a man and woman laughing into a book. Glance at the pictures on the walls. Study the frames, the webs of dust clinging to the corners. Near the window stands a Christmas tree draped with silver tinsel. You remember your...
The Ashsong by Kristi Carter
“The Ashsong” by Kristi Carter No fever brings the strange hands to place this bit in my mouth, it is the cold metal weight on my thin voice that brings me to fever. The sorrel waved its fleshy leaves at me as my sisters disappeared over the hill into the holler below. They are not the first to choose silence over change. Over the chance that an oratorio might burst forth from us with enough tremolo to hang...
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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