Wanting by Molly Beer
“Wanting” by Molly Beer The boy in purple moonboots thumps up to the gate howling “¡Mamí!” for hello. My boyfriend— “Mommy” to this orphan boy who knows no men—avoids my eye. We first came to this hogar, to Ecuador, to teach English: I want; you want; the boy wants; we all want. We were not expecting, or wanting, babies. We were not ready for such gaping need, for hunger at once wholly repulsive and...
At the Abortion Clinic by Katharyn Howd Machan
“At the Abortion Clinic” by Katharyn Howd Machan White poinsettias, drained of all their blood, adorn the waiting room table. Walk in, take a seat, pick up a magazine. On its cover pose a man and woman laughing into a book. Glance at the pictures on the walls. Study the frames, the webs of dust clinging to the corners. Near the window stands a Christmas tree draped with silver tinsel. You remember your...
The Ashsong by Kristi Carter
“The Ashsong” by Kristi Carter No fever brings the strange hands to place this bit in my mouth, it is the cold metal weight on my thin voice that brings me to fever. The sorrel waved its fleshy leaves at me as my sisters disappeared over the hill into the holler below. They are not the first to choose silence over change. Over the chance that an oratorio might burst forth from us with enough tremolo to hang...
Afterlife by Cassandra Lane
“Afterlife” by Cassandra Lane The Lynched Man’s Widow Mary feels the baby curling inside her, tighter and tighter, unbearable pain. She closes her eyes and prays for the coiled mass of limbs to dissolve. She and Burt had promised to raise this man-child together. Now, that Burt has been lynched, murdered, buried, his promises of a better future ring hollow. Mary wishes the fetus would stop feeding off her;...
Mother’s Wishbones, No Doubt by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
“Mother’s Wishbones, No Doubt” by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal furculae with not a fragment of dried-up flesh or sinew to despoil their luster — the slew of them ranging in size from Cornish hen to turkey. Funny, I’d never noticed Mother extricate any, let alone strip them clean, secrete them somewhere long-forgotten. I stumbled across those old bones — took possession of the best of them, pried loose some of my own...
Vision by Jill Boyles
“Vision” by Jill Boyles She saw her mother at a garage sale on a spring blue morning chatting with a woman behind a card table. She closed her eyes and saw her mother’s eyes: translucid gray irises and lids bordered by brown eyeliner. The skin on her face soft and slightly fuzzy. She opened her eyes and saw her mother holding up a white blouse and imagined her saying to the woman, “Only a dollar for this?”...
Advice from Mother on Your One Less Day by Les Bernstein
“Advice from Mother on Your One Less Day” by Les Bernstein skip obligation’s inescapable sins wiggle out of pigeonholes enjoy happenstance and flux don’t forget to floss clog the clunky machinery of belief refuse templates of self ignore persistent memory elbows off the table airbrush your self portrait invite farcical pratfalls avoid hard labor’s invitation to bruise shoulders back stand up...
Autumn Melancholy with Birds by Margaret Chula
“Autumn Melancholy with Birds” by Margaret Chula Morning rain is tender, inviting me to slow down. How it taps the leaves before their final fall. Distant mountains obscured by fog are still there, even though I can’t see them. Will Mother die in autumn, hands nested in her lap, knuckles veined and buckled like the leaves of sugar maples? The bird feeder outside her window is empty. Once she told me she...
The Tulip-Flame by Chloe Honum
“The Tulip-Flame” by Chloe Honum My sister’s painting this: a hill, a lane that winds around the hill, and a wide field of tulips with a centered tulip-flame. She rolls her brush through gray and adds the rain in tiny flicks, glinting arrows of cold. My sister’s painting this: a hill, a lane. Last year our mother died, as was her plan. It’s simpler to imagine something could have intervened. The centered...
At Lock and Dam No. 10 by Kathleen Kelly
“At Lock and Dam No. 10” by Kathleen Kelly Twenty-two minutes without Coppertone, the first warning sign, a pinking around the eyes, the ears. The skin shimmers, opal-white. I stay afloat, my face lifting toward Iowa skies. A beginner. I was once afraid of the water, the skimming dragonflies, territorial mallards. A quick kick of my ankle jetties me farther. Away from shore. Farther away from her. Earlier,...
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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
