Barbara Crooker: Pentimento
In the lost rooms of my childhood,
cinnamon and nutmeg float in the air
Barbara Hamby: Ode on Killing Sadness
the emcee said at the start
of the evening, “Here we are killing
sadness,” and the music did take the sting
out of the night
Video: Heading South
In this poignant understated film, eight year old Chasuna travels from her home on the Mongolian grassland to visit her father who lives in the big city.
Claudia Boyd-Barrett, Hannah Hough: A Day in the Life of Parents Caring for a Child With Complex Medical Needs
As her parents see it, caring for Claire is part of the job of being parents and something they do gladly…
Pascale Petit: A Mother Sings
I will rebirth her on banks of the river of life.
Only I have to wade through the river of thorns
while she sleeps.
I am her country and her lagoon.
Sara R. Burnett: Primary Source
What do you live for? The quiet
before sunrise or the moments after.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: Tonight, When I Turn Right on Ogden
By the time I turn onto the highway toward home
it is fifteen years ago
and my father is sitting in his favorite chair
Kathleen O’Toole: Her Grip
Now, her magnificent grasp
of language diminished, her hands
express all there is to say: hold me,
stay with me. Don’t leave me alone.
Jennifer Franklin: As Antigone (2)
For as long as I can remember
my mother told me how
I should feel, what to eat,
who to date, what clothes
looked good (and bad)
on my shape
Carol Moldaw: Road Trip to Planned Parenthood
Only one hazmat-suited
protester outside the two-block buffer zone
shouldered a sign stapled to a plywood cross
that proclaimed a woman’s regret inevitable.
Jennifer Franklin: As Antigone
I will not walk away.
The moment the nurse
pressed your splotched
body into my arms,
your needs fixed my fate.
Barbara Edelman: White-Throated Sparrow
Though she is dead
she is buying me a car
and this buying makes her happy
Beth Brown Preston: Still Life with Flowers
Momma cautioned me about the dangers of an artist’s life
when in sixth grade I revealed that I wanted to write poetry.
I painted my first canvas as a high school senior:
“The Breast” — an enormous painting of my bronze right teat.
Christine Fair: Triptych
If she had a girl, she wanted her to be pretty-popular-slender-cheerleader.
She got me.
She named me Carol.
