Woman Finds Her Face by Lois Marie Harrod
“Woman Finds Her Face” by Lois Marie Harrod when she unfolds the tablecloth and then the stains of her bones, scapula, radius, pelvis, and she realizes she has been thinking about sorrow again. How she doubles it around herself, belly and back. What she can’t change, punctures circling forehead and scalp. It’s cold outside, ice sheets the gouge down by the river, 30-degree drop into hardness, her swollen...
Agoraphobia by Susan Austin
“Agoraphobia” by Susan Austin Don’t paint summer the color of blue flax then the color of goldeneye, paint two broad black strokes a river dammed at the end of the porch, a rhomboid tilted by the tenacious lure of dandelions, and if there must be a figure, paint the figure a triangle woman with childish arms, her hair a chaos of wildflowers, the whole of summer falling through her hands. ...
Freshman by Sue Churchill
“Freshman” by Sue Churchill She stood through the whole club meeting— the officers all announcing themselves–never spoke, as if not entitled to a word or a chair. She was small and slim—fawn-like still, where the seniors, now they were does, and they knew it. She’d had her hair streaked grey, an odd shade for a fawn, the color of ash, or a boat hull-up in the sun. She looked out and away, thinking of...
Indra’s Net by Ji Hyang Padma
“Indra’s Net” by Ji Hyang Padma In Zen, one image we use to describe our interdependence with each other is Indra’s Net. Imagine a net: its horizontal threads representing time, the vertical threads representing space. Where each of these threads meet, there is a crystal which is reflecting, not only every other crystal, but every reflection of every other crystal. In this way, we are intricately connected to...
Grip by Lauren Camp
“Grip” by Lauren Camp Sure, I was afraid of the perfunctory fucks of the person standing in grief with a hand on the subway pole of the 3 train. In my soft life, I don’t hear such a dispatch of crisp pitted slurs. The least thing I have is disaster. After that, exposure. Thugs trump love at these angles and cornices where everyone knows the arc of exhaustion. The train was confronted with her spectacular...
My South by Wendy Carlisle
“My South” by Wendy Carlisle On the left, the Atchafalaya, so black, so burnt inside, silent as a pot. Down here, my lips equal silt and common bliss. Down here, I carry my grave folded in my pocket, a cardboard hunger, a box and shards. The woman beside me in this food line wears, a skintight skirt, has a back-door man. Down south we have the right to costumes and gossip, to numbers and pawn. Down south, we...
The Jugular by Karla Morton
“The Jugular” by Karla Morton You laughed when I said I got out of the truck, pocket knife in hand, looking for the horse I just hit. “And what would you have done with that?” I would have wanted to end his suffering; to cut his throat. “As if you ever could.” I hope I could have done it, if I needed to; if he hadn’t scampered off; if he’d lain there, barely breathing in the ditch. I hope I could wring a...
Dada Does Dominoes by Glenda Reed
“Dada Does Dominoes” by Glenda Reed Washy is so drunk he’s unable to hide his cheating. After slamming down a legal play, he attempts to slip a second domino near my end of the table. His fingers fumble the delicate procedure. I look to Raz, but he’s studying his own hand too closely to notice. Not wanting to leave the errant domino squatting for long, I snatch it up, “No you don’t,”...
Blue Goddesses by Laura Chaignon
“Blue Goddesses” by Laura Chaignon I was not born cross-legged Or blue Not like Shiva or Amma But I will give you my love I will put my lips on your wounds Swallow the puss Gorge on your pain I am no saint I do not preach You do not need to kneel Oh, I will kneel And liberate you From the suffering I will hug the demons out of you My love is a roaring river Melting ice, unstoppable Raging It does not hum...
The Woman Who Picked Me Up by Antonia Clark
“The Woman Who Picked Me Up” by Antonia Clark had slammed on the brakes of her rusty Dodge, deciding to pull over, after all had streaked hair and muddy boots, a lazy eye and, once in a while, a wistful look had a gallon of milk and a six-pack, a torn map, and a hammer on the seat between us had to have been under 30, but claimed she was no spring chicken in dog years had her radio tuned to country and tried...
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August 8-9 | immersion | noon to noon EST
WAVES ALIVE is an immersive experience, held tenderly by the ebb and flow of ritual, sisterhood, creative expansion, then surfacing to share what we have uncovered about ourselves and our art. Creative sisters are invited to join us at any point and remain for any length of time during our full-circle offering.
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The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
