Diner by Jackie Davis Martin
“Diner” by Jackie Davis Martin You would have lied, too. You would have promised the manager to work the entire summer when you applied for the breakfast shift at the diner which had you arriving in the parking lot at 6 in the morning in a brown nylon dress and white oxfords, to set up the creams and sugars and ketchups, shine the counters, all the...
The Promenade by Toni Loefler
“The Promenade” by Toni Loefler —after the painting by Marc Chagall After their walk and decanter of vino she’s flushed from the strappings of love. Mauvish folds of her dress billow in the geometric sky—she is staring into the horizon absentmindedly but she is still there. Soon he will lead her floating body to the pastel chapel by the deep...
There Is This Wildness by Molly Scott
“There Is This Wildness” by Molly Scott there is this wildness in her that he touched and then retracted fed on like forbidden game and then redacted ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Molly Scott’s Artist Statement: Throughout a colorful life ranging from theater, television, concert performance and recording, to mothering, social justice work,...
Self-Portrait as a Message From Rapunzel to the Princes Trying to Rescue Her by Michalle Gould
“Self-Portrait as a Message From Rapunzel to the Princes Trying to Rescue Her” by Michalle Gould Build me a city, or burn it, I do not care. If you don’t stop trying to save me, I will cut my hair. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Michalle Gould Artist Statement: Michalle Gould’s first full-length collection of poetry, “Resurrection...
Persephone Tells All by Ruth Thompson
“Persephone Tells All” by Ruth Thompson Persephone carried off (faintly protesting) by Big Beard the Muscleman, her weeping mother searched round and round but did not go down- town. Which is where she was. But Big Beard down there in the lamplight in the altogether was altogether so large, so loud, and the latesummer heat so oppressive, Persephone got tired of it (though liking the Harley okay) so she took a...
Moby Dick and the Beginning of the End by Ingrid Jendrzejewski
“Moby Dick and the Beginning of the End” by Ingrid Jendrzejewski He says Melville was stupid because he constantly refers to Moby Dick as a fish. Moby Dick is not a fish. Moby Dick is a whale. Everyone knows that whales aren’t fish and fish aren’t whales; ergo, Melville is not worth reading....
Postcard from Sissinghurst by Denise DiMarzio
“Postcard from Sissinghurst” by Denise DiMarzio I. My hand hesitates, hovering above the clean white rectangle, the small space wide open, waiting, years unwritten. Having a great time. Wish you were here. Vita would never hesitate. In the white garden, I wanted to kneel down with you, anchor my hands in your dark curls, grow roots and wrap them around us like wild bindweed. II. The red deer wander. Shapely...
Recognition by Sandy Gillespie
“Recognition” by Sandy Gillespie We open the window to the lapping bay and laze beside the fire. Overnights are rare for grown women, uninterrupted hours delicate as artichoke petals, from which we scrape soft flesh with gentle teeth. The Cabernet is an eighty-five, and children don’t exist for us tonight. Tonight we are women talking about our lovers. Yours is new, and he moves in such a way that...
The Geography of First Kisses by Karin Cecile Davidson
“The Geography of First Kisses” by Karin Cecile Davidson Compass Points The first was Leon. A small, muscular boy. A midshipman at the academy. He knew about compasses, easterly winds, how to bring the boat about on white-capped seas. I went for his blond hair and his deep voice, both like honey, thick and golden and crowded, the waxen chambers, the echo in my chest. Summer grew brighter, and I...
Lovers in the Age of Airmail by Kelly Cressio-Moeller
“Lovers in the Age of Airmail” by Kelly Cressio-Moeller There is a reason it is called longhand. Writing takes time to winnow out the artifice in blue-black script. You write each other page after page, month upon month, year after year; your cursive cross-stitching the Atlantic, soaring over slate rooftops through the open windows of each other’s lives, entwining yourselves as Chagall’s lovers. You learn...
So by Martha Andrews Donovan
“So” by Martha Andrews Donovan After Shauna Osborn’s Carved Skin And I have so many words— —Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior I. Here, in the high desert, I am finding my way back to language. I will carry these words on my back. So. I. II. Dear Shauna, I keep circling — how to enter? I have decided to write this as a letter to you. Unformed. Still forming. Four years...
Breathing Fee by Tanya Ko Hong
“Breathing Fee” by Tanya Ko Hong Talk about the wood stacked high in the living room and what it costs to breathe in my home— raw wood, oak so long and thick— like a dead elephant stretched wall to wall. He said to acclimate takes time and more money—heartwood slow to open, to breathe— one week became a month and more. I couldn’t breathe just looking at the pile of planks— unusable, forlorn— it had to...
Open or Safe by Laura Grace
“Open or Safe” by Laura Grace When she decided to go back, it opened again. The stitches popped in response to that final thought, that, I miss her more, moment. She went to the hospital the next day. She needed to be closed before she could make that phone call and she wanted to be sewn up before she began to pack herself back in. The doctor fingered the would-be scar. “This is a strange happening,” he...
Without Turning by Sandy Gillespie
Without Turning by Sandy Gillespie She feels him curve against her back. She knows he is awake, his hand moves with purpose, traces hip, thigh. Settles. She feels his beard on her neck; she wants to roll toward him, offer breasts to hungry eyes. The weight of her beak holds her. From behind, he cannot see feathers sprouted on her brow. He breathes greedy accusations. She opens her mouth but doesn’t turn to him,...
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SUMMER WAVES | 2024
A global virtual adventure rich in inspiration and sisterhood.
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With eyes and arms and hearts open, we will recognize each other by the work we do to feel and live, to speak and create from that feeling, so that others may find ways back to their own hearts. | Irena Praitis, California, USA
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