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Afterimage
by LouAnn Muhm
As children we were warned
not to look
but we watched on paper,
one sheet held above the other
as the shadow
sickled itself
across the pinholed light.
I peeked,
furtive and afraid,
until the burning stayed too long
and the warnings rang true
and terrible.
It is the way I look at you now,
mainly on paper,
with only the briefest
stolen glances
so as not to be blinded
by brightness
eclipsing slowly
into dark.
Read more poetry by LouAnn
Trees
By Kia Hayes
for those that survived
we gathered your wood
to fuel the fire at night
our medicine men talked
you into revealing your
secrets for our survival
we sat beneath your fronds
and fruits and made wishes
we ate earth beneath your
roots we were unified then
we imitated your stance on
one leg we were warriors
awaiting a cry, a call we
stood grounded in earth
reaching to the heavens
touching ancestral veils
we were kin then
in the new land your
skin bled too easily
our bloods became one
the lash of 'ol planters hands
marked your silhouette on
my back no longer a brother
you became but a voyeur to
the breaking of bones my body
with rope around outstretched neck
became a misplaced note in the air
a faceless bleeding wind chime.
Read more of
Kia's poems |
Butterflies
by Linda Benninghoff
This winter I find a white fish bone
at the edge of a river.
The air of the house
clogs with the sea
and its rasping voice--
wave after wave,
the slow music tells me
this world
will never be mine,
though it has stared at me
from strange eyes
like wildflowers,
beating wings like a bird
who loses its fear
in my hand,
glancing like a child
with my own thoughts in its eyes.
I know I have never owned anything,
not my hands, my thoughts
nor even the butterflies
that jam
in summer
against stones and flowers,
wavering, thick with themselves,
thronging in a light
that does not divide them,
or tell of any order
besides this days blind sun.
Read more poetry
by Linda
Motherhood
By Kim Wells
All
the good stories are about the bad
ones
Medea, chopping up children
for lunch
(add a salad and a glass of
chilled skim
milk, and you have a balanced meal).
Wicked
step moms
leaving you in the darkest part of the woods
while they go for
a nail appointment. Pedicures and Wolves
play important parts in this version.
There
are never any fairy tales
about cleaning snot off of your sleeve
or changing diapers three times in one morning.
Or about those deep hugs
and the smell of the crook in the back hollow of
their little necks. Sweet
spot.
The
fairy tales would tell you
that
is the most vulnerable spot--
a good place to whack with your axe and rid yourself of
the new husband's old baggage
to send to the good mother buried
behind the old well. Her embrace is eternal.
But
who would read those good mom stories? Who would
pull up an old afghan cup of cocoa fireplace filled with snapping
twigs?
If
you want to go down in history, you must first
beat your children soundly. Lick blood from your fingers.
Smile with pointy teeth
on the way to meet your lovers.
Read more of Kim's poems |