Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
April Storm

No comments

Flurry of snow, marvelous and blinding.
Through the window I watch it go down.
Thirty-foot pine limb on the ground,
the hundred-year-old apple tree broken
beneath its scented branches.

Men come to clean things up.
Chainsaws and hard hats and pickup trucks.
Apple trunk, its center dark and hollow,
sliced into chunks, roots dug up
and fed through the chipper.

I watch, just minutes from learning
inside me there is no baby, only a sac:
black and empty on the ultrasound screen;
hours from laying my body flat on a steel bed,
legs spread, womb sucked clean.


Elisabeth Farrell’s poems have appeared in journals including the Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Perigee, Free Lunch, Oak Bend Review, The Healing Muse, among others. She received an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, where she was a Jane Kenyon Scholar. She lives in Maine with her husband and a feisty little dog.


More from



Comments are now closed for this piece.