I can’t recall / How to breathe / But you don’t notice / Grab my sleeve and tug / Ready to go back up the hill.
And now, his eyes drooping like commas / he settles a sentence / lies down in a pronoun / the O of a cradle / the space bar of nap.
Juliette De Soto
She has psoriasis; he has mites. / Are you ready to do what I did? / Otherwise, otherwise, otherwise.
[B]ut you don’t know / whether to count the little phantom / girl still galloping around / under your skin.
I need to see only her in my own life, / to understand her, what it was like to be a woman terrified always.
Whiskey / is the perfect color if what you have / is a singular capacity for swilling / embers.
What speck, what sun, what cluster became / what fig, what plum nestled in my trunk
They hadn’t seen me the day before: / free-climbing ballerina out of the music box
Anne Salzman Kurzweg
The smallness of / this long day, / minutes parceled out / by tweezer.
Her insistent tap tap tap on my arm /is a gentle yet unwelcome alarm, /yanking me from Morpheus’ embrace /and the blessed anaesthesia of sleep
We publish poetry that has some element of the unexpected–whether it’s the language, the imagery, or the emotion—yet feels honest. Do you have a poem that acknowledges the intensity of motherhood? Read more about submitting your work here.