LouAnn Muhm, Poetry Editor & Linda Benninghoff, Asst. Poetry Editor | home | | submission guidelines |

May 2008 Read more poetry in the archives 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 day’s 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

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updated: August 2006