by Hibah Shabkhez “Elephants never do homework.” “Elephants never wear mittens.” “Elephants never wash their—” “What’s going on here?” I asked, taking in the gigantic baby-pink elephant freshly taped to the fridge, and the other, even larger one which was being filled in with a concentration and vigour only a six-year-old artist could possess. “After mermaids, dolphins and seagulls, the Read More
Tag: family
before her mother died
by Lisa Reily she didn’t know that her family was only held togetherby an old plastic Christmas tree,her mother’s pierogies,and homemade lemon cheesecake. she had always planned to make her mother’s food,but only ever watched her cook;now her hands were lost without a recipe. she didn’t know her father had never understoodwhy her mother had left him, even though he’d Read More
Explainable Earthquakes
by Tammy L. Breitweiser The fancy folding chairs are arranged in soldier rows facing the front. A movie theater of grief; only one showing. All sounds are muffled like there are bunnies lining the walls. Low music plays distinctive to a funeral home. You never hear it anywhere else. To describe it becomes impossible and lives in the same fog Read More
Winter Olympics
by Ashly Curtis My best friend and I ice skated on the kitchen floor,twirling off wooden chairs, gliding across tilein our pink ruffled socks. Salchows, Lutzes, evena rare triple axel or two. It was 1998. Olympic season.We held up handmade signs in the living room,blocky marker letters cheering on the figure skaters;Tara Lipinski etching beauty with her blades, carvingballerina. My Read More
Putting On Face Cream In Front Of The Mirror
by Ashly Curtis She’s not dead yet, but someday—my fingers tremble at the thought, performing my nightly ritual.I dip my middle finger in the soft white bowl and smear youthon my cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, stick out tongue at my reflectionin the glass, like she did at me when I was her mirror.For a brief moment, I call her spirit Read More
Shouldn’t Mother Be A Song?
by Prosper Enotor Path these curtains to my childhood, let in some light. This poem is the clattering of a coin toss in a room the beep of a c-4 seconds away from explosion. At age four i first learn to nod, to balance day and night on my tongue.then, pain was not having enough toy to fill the Read More
Rebel-sound
by Philip Berry Amy, 11, couldn’t know how the day would end. In the sharp metallic hour as the first train rolled in, ideas danced and hope thrummed. While thickening rivulets of opinion moved calmly among the city’s sand-blasted flanks and reflective skins, father could not see what the streets held. Nor could mother sense the rising threat, her gaze Read More
Weekly Weekend Washing Ritual
by Frances Tate Check weather forecast. Cast skeptical eyes skyward. Flip a coin. Load washing machine. Finger hovers, nuclear nervous over the start button. Commit… door locks, water rushes. No going back now. Cycle completes. Dozens of socks and smalls damply dangle like chandelier pendants from two, one-hook carousels; the washing line equivalent of a cyclist’s quick-release wheel. I promote Read More
Radio Advice
by Thomas M. McDade My Sox were facing Chicago – Pale Hose, as newspapers said, headed for a pennant, and called the Go-Go Sox: sinker, slider specialist Bob Shaw to start. My dad kept a radio on his bedside table, volume low for my mother’s sake when he couldn’t sleep. He hunted the dial for interesting stuff. He’d picked up Read More
People Parts
by Roppotucha Greenberg Pamela, my daughter, doesn’t come because she isn’t into graves lately (or Wordsworth or her maths homework), which is a shame. It’s been a year and I’ve grown a nice kitchenette beside the headstone. You know the way it is. At first, you seep. You squelch through the dark, straining at every molecule in your path. You’re Read More