The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith by Katherine Orr
“The Last Diary Entries of Septimus Warren Smith” by Katherine Orr Like an attic full of books. Like a gymnasium. Like sorrow. Everything is always so big. But I’m not afraid of the silence that follows what I came to say. So instead of talking, I watch my wife work on her bonnets – feathers and flowers, violets, vegetables, birds. All the ladies come to her, now that it’s Spring. * Explosion in the park...
Silence on a June Morning, 1944 by Tracy Davidson
“Silence on a June Morning, 1944” by Tracy Davidson Soldiers lined up in perfect formation beside the egg, its skull cracked, peeled back bit by bit, white matter exposed and discarded. The soldiers move in, drowning themselves in gold treasure. The metal tool enters the fray, scraping up every last vestige of life. Ejected shell casings lie scattered about amid crumbs of debris and puddles of dripped butter....
Spoil of War by Leatha Kendrick
“Spoil of War” by Leatha Kendrick –for the Chibok schoolgirls, and all the girls and women taken Every womb ransacked, every womb wound round with shame’s body, once a studious curious being now bounty of a holy war. Every sacred shift of childhood ripped away leaving ravaged skin, unhinged senses, echoed calls to prayer beat in their ears, the constant wound remade more than daily. All the wombs...
Mothers Who Carry Their Own Water by Gerda Govine Ituarte
“Mothers Who Carry Their Own Water” by Gerda Govine Ituarte When there is no well land is parched mouth dusty skin cracked bloody fingers plant roses Mothers who carry their own water are viewed with discomfort curtains of words fall I don’t know what to say time heals all whispers trail behind like tails a reminder of what could happen to them Mothers who carry their own water live through in under around...
Women’s Voices by Diana Woodcock
“Women’s Voices” by Diana Woodcock Sometimes I listen to Turkish music, Bahar, Kordes Turkuler, even though the tempo’s too fast, too brash, because I need to feel at last a little unsettled, a bit rattled by discordance— the voices of women from Turkish, Armenian, Kurdish borders calling out to me. Language mysterious, but no mistaking their message. Same in every language: absence of love and respect the...
This Land by Chloe DeFilippis
“This Land” by Chloe DeFilippis On a farm in Lakewood, New Jersey, my father, a little boy, visits his paternal grandparents. They are immigrants, speaking broken English to the family and yelling Italian commands at the dogs. Their land is filled with food: watermelons, peaches, raspberries, blackberries, grapes, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, chickens, rabbits, and a goat or two. My father runs...
Manifest Destiny by Kirin McCrory
“Manifest Destiny” by Kirin McCrory It is Man’s natural state to expand his boundaries past the land that has been granted him by the immediate moment. Give a man an acre and he will fill it, and want two. Give him two and he will break those, and need three. It is the nature of Man to bound and be boundless, and the West seemed...
Blackbirds by Karen Heuler
“Blackbirds” by Karen Heuler When my grandparents immigrated, they were very poor and lived for a time near a park with some of their children (it would be years before the whole family could be together). My grandfather went to the park at evening to catch blackbirds for dinner. I guess they ate blackbirds where he came from and it was...
The Refugee by Julie Christine Johnson
“The Refugee” by Julie Christine Johnson 1 used lifejacket 1 passport 1 sunhat Toothbrush Comb Seasickness tablets 200 Euros 200 Turkish liras Three multi-packets of cigarettes With this, and the clothing he wears, he leaves a broken city whose name meant copper in a language time has long since melted down and reshaped. The man’s name, the one thing he carries that no one can steal, is Radwan. ~ 1 eiderdown...
Raqqa, Syria to Crete by Susan Shaw Sailer
“Raqqa, Syria to Crete” by Susan Shaw Sailer Doah’s 19, Syrian, working in Egypt all human beings are born free her own town bombed out and equal in dignity and rights Egypt doesn’t want her they are endowed tries to kidnap and send her back with reason and conscience Decides to go to Europe and should act toward one another pays $2000 for a spot on a fishing boat meant for...
Making Waves in 1798 by Tammi Truax
“Making Waves in 1798” by Tammi Truax “I can tell when Gaja smell water. Can read it in the way she move. This is way a’fore any water’s in sight. She get excited. It’s the only time that she take to walking at a fast clip. Mister like her to go fast.” Solomon whispered as if Mister Owen was within earshot. “He think we travel too slow. Makes more money if we git places faster. But we like the slow walk.” He...
You Are Migrant by Katherine DiBella Seluja
“You Are Migrant” by Katherine DiBella Seluja which is to say you are standing in a line a very long line you are grasping the fist of a child you do not know you will not lose this child you don’t know where this line will lead you but you know well what it took you from you are from Syria, Tunisia, Mexico, Ukraine a sack holds your belongings in other words please God, praise Allah enough to barter for your...
Diaspora by Faith Holsaert
“Diaspora” by Faith Holsaert Our inheritance in the Diaspora is to live in this inexplicable space–Dionne Brand if there was a curtain we didn’t notice if there was something other than raspberries among dusty leaves we didn’t see we saw how the path wound up from the creek we knew we had to carry we knew the old man in the next town we...
The, a lyrical soliloquy by Chiori Miyagawa
“The, a lyrical soliloquy” by Chiori Miyagawa How can anyone read my chart with either thirteen or fourteen-hour differences, depending on when the candies go on sale for Halloween? Maybe fate just means chronology. Or it’s an April first joke or the second. A man’s name is a man’s name, it takes three generations to undo it. I have a girl, she has a girl, and fingers crossed, like that. At some dinner, I...
The Weight of White by Lorraine Mejia
“The Weight of White” by Lorraine Mejia He brought her to his orchard home of white snow, holding her out with pride so his family could see her beauty. They only saw her accent, saw through the bleached hair. Woman with Aztec blood! Father tried desperately to make them see. In the farmhouse attic bedroom, the grandfather clock that used to rock him to sleep now watched as she silently cried, reapplied...
And / Or / Against / For by Vero Gonzalez
“And / Or / Against / For” by Vero Gonzalez AND 1. Allows for contradictions: weak (emotional) and strong (in control of emotions), victim (defined by experiences) and survivor (defines own experiences), here (United States) and gone (Puerto Rico). Good Latina (quiet, submissive) and fierce feminist (vocal, empowered). 2. Encourages synthesis: This plus this plus this–no part of us excluded....
Terrible Fortune Inside My Head, Grenadine by Lynne Thompson
“Terrible Fortune Inside My Head, Grenadine” by Lynne Thompson inspired by Alison Saar’s sculpture “Foundered” …and my head lies, eternally, on its side, its one unbound ear cocked to the wind (always howling, racing away, exposed,...
Bulletin by Cheryl Clarke
“Bulletin”(1) by Cheryl Clarke Disguising her vigilance with passive stance, she read the bulletin stealthily, with some difficulty and great understanding. The General will esteem it as a singular favor if you can apprehend a mulatto girl, servant and slave of Mrs. Washington, who eloped from this place yesterday. She may intend to the enemy. Her name is Charlotte but in all probability will change it. She...
102. by M. Nzadi Keita
“102.” by M. Nzadi Keita My mother washed your weekly pile of panties while pee tested her own body’s drawstring with a faint touch, then a nudge. She wanted to get done, to skip the field. She wanted to play. After she hung your drawers up by the scant silk rim, made to catch your sweat, she dropped her head into a quiet she could own. This girl. Whom you called “Your Girl” or “Your Day Girl” depending on...
Imagine: A Love Song by Denise Miller
“Imagine: A Love Song” by Denise Miller -for and “from” Sandra Bland Imagine I am not fingernail scrapings— imagine I am not neck, or vagina or legs— Imagine I, am not a knot. Imagine you are not a toe tag. Not rubber band that encircles...
I am an eternal river, dammed by the demands of home, children, work, and worry. The gulf is near, and I desperately long to reach the flowing water to join an ocean of sisterhood. | Kristi Dreesen, Missouri, USA
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The Water Holds Our Stories Apr 26, 2024
