Barbara Crooker: Diorama
Mother stands by the stove, waiting
to serve. Father has tamped down
his anger for the night.
Dawn Potter: Play Clothes
How many summers
did that red and white sundress last?
It was my mother’s before it was mine
Sydney Lea: The Yogurt Cure
I grow more and more reminiscent, it seems, though that’s a relative assessment. Like my old poetic hero Wordsworth, I opted for an elegiac tone very young in my writing … Continue reading
Sonali Kolhatkar: Embrace the Mess
Women can reject the pressure to maintain spotless homes year-round and focus on what really matters to us.
Laura McCullough: Another Winter Sunday (with passive aggression)
alone inside
the diminishing body, wanting
any attention he can get
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: Heaven-Fire
The boy is not my blood
Though “Son” is the only name I have for “He-
Who-Will-Dance-To-Just-About-Anything,”
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: The Toddler
Almost anything will break
The toddler’s heart: His mommy’s keys
Singing from the bowl of loose ends
And change on her way out the door
For work.
Richard St. John: The Tao to Disneyland 
Disneyland at last: The draw-bridged entry! Monorail!
Tom Sawyer’s cave. Gators on the Jungle Cruise. Natives
passing in canoes. Snack-bar at the Matterhorn.
Megan Merchant / Luke Johnson: Origin Story (An Epistolary Dialogue)
From our window, grosbeaks
and buntings tangle into flight. The hours count
earlier now, because of the way they are lit.
Michael Simms: Satan and the Snowman
I don’t have relationships,
the old drunk explained
with surprising wisdom,
I take hostages.
Marco North: The Stairs
Downstairs, there is a pile of kopeks next to the garbage bins. A ruble is far less than a penny, and there are one hundred kopeks to every ruble…. The kopeks are not there to be thrown away. They are for someone who actually needs them. Three hundred of them would buy a potato or two.
