Someone Blundered by Leonore Hildebrandt
“Someone Blundered” by Leonore Hildebrandt For nothing was simply one thing. Virginia Woolf While father paces and declares, mother takes a moment by the window. In her own room, the girl finds that words are emboldened by the sounds of waves–– the other Lighthouse was true too. Here the picture wants a daub–– perhaps this time it is their boat. The girl is...
Solitary Prism by Kathleen Hellen
“Solitary Prism” by Kathleen Hellen —at the House of Inscriptions, Little Moreton Hall, Aug. 3, 1649 in this custom of the bride—a girl The beautiful gardens encircling The trefoils and the quatrefoils as rings inside of rings The long gallery where the Queen herself had danced The magnificent bay where panes were scored on upper-storey windows The “a” looks like an...
Three-Legged Foal by Yania Padilla Sierra
“Three-Legged Foal” by Yania Padilla Sierra Who built this pen I am kept in? Stark and sterile, no tender grass For my tender mouth. No sweet bales to lie on. Run I would, if walk could I. I am a three-legged foal. In the amniotic ocean A lovely cinder Venus was I, ‘til Father cracked his whip, splitting the mare And in so doing was I. Mare a gnashing Fury in her anguish. I proffered my leg-Mother, maim I....
The Gift of Veneer by Melva Sue Priddy
“The Gift of Veneer” by Melva Sue Priddy -after Li-Young Lee To keep me facing the hole in the veneered door hung just that week in our two year old bathroom where none had hung before, he sat on the side of the bed and pulled me between his legs. Had you entered, then, you would have thought you saw a man who cared. “You see that door. You see that hole.” I was transfixed his voice so unexpectedly careful; I looked...
La Guapa by Marianela Medrano
“La Guapa” by Marianela Medrano No one has ever seen a Ciguapa, but Grandma and Grandpa told me the story so many times that it became reality. Tia Ceci, Mami and Papi, told it to me so many times that it got recorded in my cells the way important things are recorded. If you don’t believe me, ask Nelly. She also heard the same story. The two of us listened as if there was nothing else to do in the world...
Sunday Morning by Jeanne Bryner
“Sunday Morning” by Jeanne Bryner Mama stands blotting her red lipstick and the tired Bible waits on our gray kitchen table. We have a nickel for the collection plate. We whine because Ben gets to carry the nickel. Ben will drop it, we say. Mama is firm. We wear strawberry pink dresses, the boys wear blue sailor suits. Bacon grease is Mama’s scent. Nancy scrapes cornmeal mush into Sam’s bowl, he gulps. Glass...
My Father on His Deathbed by Cynthia Robinson Young
“My Father on His Deathbed” by Cynthia Robinson Young …except he didn’t have one. His deathbed was an alley street, far away from comfort. He was abandoned, lonely, confused, staring at a needle he had anchored into his arm, not meaning to draw his life out. Staring into streetlights until they become stars, he wonders what will happen next In a world he believed he created with his family, and now believes...
Sweater Girl by Darlene Taylor
“Sweater Girl” by Darlene Taylor I rocked my knees, trying not to pee on myself. Thunder rattled the basement windows. Rain seeped through cracks, glistening on the wall like wet glue. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. Unable to hold it any longer, I stood. Girl, Mama said. I need the bathroom, I said. It was a good excuse. When the lady at the Woolworth counter in Richmond said...
Angels and Saints by Chloe DeFilippis
“Angels and Saints” by Chloe DeFilippis She kissed her hand then placed it on the foot of a saint. She lit a votive candle. I did the same. On either side of St. Michael’s Church were tall, plaster statues of Jesus, Mary, and the saints. As a little girl, I thought they’d come to life. I thought this trick—kissing the foot, lighting the candle—meant what my mother told me: If you pray to a saint, they’ll...
Kittens by Chloe DeFilippis
“Kittens” by Chloe DeFilippis The last time my sister hopped the fence to get a ball from our neighbor’s yard, one of the kittens we’d been tracking was dead. Its black furred body was deflated. White foam crusted at the edges of its mouth. Mama told us to stay away from those cats—that their constant hissing meant rabies. We didn’t listen. We weren’t supposed to hop the fence either. When our old neighbors moved,...
. . .
How do we recover treasure from the deepest places, the bathys?
Submit Your Art & Writing to WAVES
. . . . . . . . .
Bring to light our deepest treasures of sisterhood and creative renewal.
August 8-9 | immersion | noon to noon EST
Recent From Waves
-
The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
