Water Women by Alla Bozarth
“Water Women” by Alla Bozarth We do not want to rock the boat, you say, mistaking our new poise for something safe. We smile secretly at each other, sharing the reality that for some time we have not been in the boat. We jumped or were pushed or fell, and some leaped overboard. Our bodies form a freedom fleet, our dolphin grace is power. We learn and teach and as we go each woman sings~ each woman’s hands are...
St. Lunatic by Gayle Bell
“St. Lunatic” by Gayle Bell That’s what my kids call me able to try to fix the whole world in a single bleeding heart I bare it all baby an offered hat, clothes still with good wear a burger, coffee, a shoulder, an ear Ms. June has a smile like a brown berry sunshine a greeting like a country hug Mr. Willie can sing spirituals that would make a statue get happy Alabama tats on a shoulder A yes mam, Gods...
Host by Roz Spafford
“Host” by Roz Spafford From The Gospel According to Mary Hungry for justice, he won’t eat, not one grape nor flake of fish. His flesh is grass, dry as a whisper. His wish: to divide his body like those fish. Gambling on scraps, returned in baskets, overflowing. He would be bread dry and flat broken for us. He would be memory. Behind him the demons hiss. Subsistence is what they give us: our sardines...
Dogma by Cynthia Reeser
“Dogma” by Cynthia Reeser Everywhere you look, churches. A proliferation of churches. It’s the Bible Belt and to be expected, but this, really. My son counting churches—it’s a game, wherever we drive. Churches in the country, churches in the city, churches in the suburbs. Churches across from other churches, dogmatic competition. Every other building a church. A church for every person, one for every other...
Where God Lives by Jeanne Bryner
“Where God Lives” by Jeanne Bryner It is hard to believe in God, even now. He was always somewhere else. Maybe fishing. Sometimes I get mad. Like when my sister was eight and I was six. Daddy went drinking, left us all alone to tend our baby brothers. We were potty-training the chubby one, Ben. I knelt to pull him off his potty seat and his weenie got caught in a crack of blue plastic. Blood spurted as if I’d...
Bring Me the God of Mrs. Garcia by Susan Kelly-DeWitt
“Bring Me the God of Mrs. Garcia” by Susan Kelly-DeWitt The thread was flame-colored, like vermilion flycatchers she once sketched in the countryside near Buenos Aires. Portugal snipped a length and smoothed it with her plump fingers. The sharp she would use, one of her mother’s good golds, weighed less than a hummingbird’s feather. She slipped the floss through the needle’s eye and thought of the rich man...
Incantation by Maureen Cummins
“Incantation” by Maureen Cummins INANNA. ENHEDUANNA. NISABA, colored as the stars. KALI, The Ferocious, The Vengeful, goddess of fury. MEDEA. ELECTRA. LADY MACBETH. IPHIGENIA, murdered by her father. SAPPHO. MURASAKI. DE PIZAN. Learn your alphabet. Practice your ABCs: Aphra Ben. Aphra Ben. Aphra Ben. _________________________________________________________ JOAN OF ARC, bound and burned. HÉLOÏSE, captured and...
Last Bus by Lynn Tudor Deming
“Last Bus” by Lynn Tudor Deming after Emily Dickinson He’s going to take you now. He’s going to slow down, And you guess it’s the last time You’ll ever have to wait, clutching Your jacket. Much closer than seemed Possible–suddenly its dark hulk looms up– Now it’s your bus, like so many you Fidgeted for in the thickening dusk. ____________________ Share your response...
The Vigil by Dipika Guha
“The Vigil” by Dipika Guha CHARACTERS: WOMAN: any age, true of spirit and heart, a warrior AUTHOR’s note: This play was inspired by Maxine Hong Kingston’s A Woman Warrior and Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. WOMAN The picture is finished. The clouds came last. The sea came first. The horizon line was soothingly straight; just like the eye likes it. Then the islands. A little listless. Alone. Present...
At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos by Ruth Thompson
“At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos” by Ruth Thompson Let us begin here: outside the one-room whaling museum at Point Lobos, beneath the dark arms of cypresses. White bones of whales lie stacked— chained together so that no one can steal them. No charnal ground, no messy metamorphoses, no vultures. Only the antler shapes of Cypress’s transcendence, and these white bones, past changing. Drybones like stones....
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The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
