Safety by Kimarlee Nguyen
“Safety” by Kimarlee Nguyen I do not know where I can go. When I was eleven, I climbed to the top of the concrete shed in the backyard and looked down. The dirt was in a pile a few feet below me but I imagined it as the end of a deep, deep valley. I was wearing a hand-me-down dress from my cousin who is much skinnier than I was (or ever will be) and the elastic waist cut deep into my stomach. I pulled down...
Ordinary Sophie by Karen Heuler
“Ordinary Sophie” by Karen Heuler I don’t need to stand out in a crowd. The others do, of course; they want to be special. No one who “wants” to be special is special. The special want something specific. I find wanting to be repulsive; the neediness drags people down, puts weights on their legs; they can’t get free of it. I exist; I touch things; I move on. I am 16 and no one else in my family is 16 right...
Tulip Girl by Michel Wing
“Tulip Girl” by Michel Wing They said, Ignore her. Shut the door. Give up this hunt. What matters, one pebble in a wall of stone, one cry in a torrent of sound? But tulip girl, I see you, dark tips skirted round, your bruised petals dancing in night. No matter how cold the garden, cruel the hoe, there you are, glory, spark, shine. ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here...
The Difference Between a Child and Offspring by Melva Sue Priddy
“The Difference Between a Child and Offspring” by Melva Sue Priddy The muddy-hoofed sow farrows on her side, fastened in the log pen, a wooden gate shoved up to fasten her in. She heaves and grunts. “Climb in,” he orders and I slip to the ground beside her. If she tried, she couldn’t see her other end, the swollen vulva swollen. And they will birth from that end, this year’s litter. “She’ll eat them all,” he...
In a Shark’s Mouth by Nicole Lacy
“In a Shark’s Mouth” by Nicole Lacy Someone once told me about the man-eating muskies in Lake Erie. Someone else swore there were snapping turtles big enough to take off toes and fingers. I stopped swimming, even though Grandma assured me that the stories of pikes picking off Great Lakes waders were myths. But because I was a curious girl, it wasn’t long before I learned about the bull shark, which can...
Spring by Chloe Honum
“Spring” by Chloe Honum Mother tried to take her life. The icicles thawed. The house, a wet coat we couldn’t put back on. Still, the garden quickened, the fields were firm. Birds flew from the woods’ fingertips. Among the petals and sticks and browning fruit, we sat in the grass and bickered, chained daisies, prayed. All that falls is caught. Unless it doesn’t stop, like moonlight, which has no pace to speak...
Unfettered by Melva Priddy
Unfettered by Melva Priddy A meandering god stepped into silence when I was three years old, settled and spoke with me inside the dappled edge of maples, oaks and cedars across the road. Unfettered, I melded with dirt, clay, tree trunks and stone. Doleful and pliant mud, worked from yesterday’s rain which persisted in widening the gully across the front field, we molded into dishes, laid them aside. Red clay. Red bowls....
The grasshopper, the hawk, and the squash vine by Felice Wyndham
“The grasshopper, the hawk, and the squash vine” by Felice Sea Wyndham She sat under the plum tree. Gobs of sap had oozed out of the trunk in spots and dried into clear purplish lumps. This garden behind the wattle and daub washroom was overrun with squash plants. Their vines reached up into the lower branches of the plum tree, cascades of orange trumpet blooms along their lines of growth. She had come to...
Space Invaders by Roxanna Bennett
“Space Invaders” by Roxanna Bennett Childhood: recurring UFO’s illuminated her nights, ladders swung from stratospheric heights, detached manner of the doctors who sliced and examined her small parts, cataloguing ribs, spine, clavicle, femurs in their labelled containers, cubed the meatier bits, murmured over their findings before the cure and connect, numb reconstruct, then the body’s transfer to the bed miles...
Float by Wendy Miles
“Float” by Wendy Miles 1. An open door. A child pauses on a step. Her head turns, lifts to hear her name float above the yard. A child is an open door. The child holds her breath at the thought of what it means —her name—stills to hook it to herself with a bright pin. A child is a breath. A name is a bright pin. 2. A low sink. An open window. A mother leans at the low sink, shirt off, breasts pressed to a towel....
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