The Disappointed Women by Celeste Helene Schantz
“The Disappointed Women” by Celeste Helene Schantz These are the tssking women; the women who glance sideways at my son. These are whispering women, who talk behind their hands; who wait for the bus with their precious brats, little rats with normal brains, mimicking my boy as he talks to the wind, to the robins; speaks in signs with small fingers flying fast as hummingbird wings. He tries to join their...
At Precisely the Corner by Faith Holsaert
“At Precisely the Corner” by Faith Holsaert at precisely the corner a woman with wild eyes as you are turning a kind of wildness as you are turning turn wall-eyed terror another whom you knew and now, look and now, not whom you thought and look again and you will see another she is walking close to the wall no room for a shadow a dog follows a feist dog who fits inside her shadow you know these dogs know them...
Kymopoeia by Tina Pocha
“Kymopoeia” by Tina Pocha They cut my breasts off. They want me to love, but they cut my breasts off. They gave me one earring. How can I be fair with just one earring? They say smile. I smile. They say smile. I smile. They say you are not smiling. I say, this is my smile. My son thinks I love his brother more. But I tell the Ayah to draw his bath and lay out his clothes. My son thinks I love his brother...
Margie’s Monologue by Thelma Virata de Castro
“Margie’s Monologue” by Thelma Virata de Castro (Excerpted from the full-length play Cookies for Prisoners) MARGIE (White housewife. Sixty.) When I got pregnant with Jude, I was so happy. Larry and I had already given up on having kids. Larry didn’t want to go to any hocus-pocus fertility doctors. I hit forty and I thought, “That’s it.” No baby for me. Our lives kept us busy, but I always...
Always, Every, Only by Susan Sarver
“Always, Every, Only” by Susan Sarver It only takes a half-hour three times a week to stay fit and a few vitamins every day are good plus a check-up every year, teeth every six months, unless you have kids with braces then it’s every four, sort of like smoke-detector batteries that were always every six months unless you track down the ones you only need to change every five years except when you have a child...
Shushed by Rebecca Roth
“Shushed” by Rebecca Roth The first person I (Shush!) is myself. We’re trying, I might say. But I can’t say. I could lose My job. So, I depend on you. On your public, privileged wars. And still more: on your private battles, private losses. Silence any open-eyed fear. Keep a white-knuckled lid on joy. Keep still: wait til you can’t deny; until then, deny! deny! deny!...
The Birth by Linda Ravenswood
“The Birth” by Linda Ravenswood The ones on four legs ran away. Her screams were a shock even to her. Though the mate had mated previously, he too kept in the outback. When the little one fell out from between her legs, she had no reason to smile and carry on with all of that laughing like she did, but she did it anyway. She picked him up; brought her mouth, over his nose, sucked out the clog, jettisoned red...
Birth Marker by Gerda Govine Ituarte
“Birth Marker” by Gerda Govine Ituarte Newborn son two days of life tattoo needle dips into ink and his ashes burns “ADAM” on to her arm skin stings babies gone from here sing lullabies to her. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Gerda Govine Ituarte Artist Statement: Her work appeared in The Altadena Poetry Review Anthology, Coiled Serpent, Journal of Modern...
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,...
. . .
Who do we aspire to become within this sacred creative space?
Submit Your Art & Writing to WAVES
. . . . . . . . .
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.
Recent From Waves
-
The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
