Poems & Essays

05 Feb

Lake Geneva

General/Column No Response

A flood makes a sound,
Daddy says, and that sound
changes everything.

I see a wooden floor,
one polished smooth,
The other is buckled.
Polyurethane peeling
from decades of dancers,
from the covering, uncovering layers
of river silt.

I smell burgers, fries, froth
from children’s spilt milkshakes,
mud, rot, and old insulation
that hangs from exposed rafters
housing brown spiders the size
of malt balls.

I hear a rockolas in the corner,
high heels hitting hardwood floors
as dancers twirl and twist and laugh and fall in love
as fish splash, and the empty
buzz of mud daubers echo
in the long ago kitchen.

I run my finger along the mud line
as my daughter presses herself
against the wall.

Measure me! she demands.
Would I have been underwater?
Yes, and I trace the carved initials decades old.

That sound, Daddy says,


Candice Marley Conner loves fairytales and has to take turns with her five year-old and two year-old on who gets to be the villain. Evil cackles and rawrs have been mastered by all. She is represented by Lotus Lane Literary and has a YA mystery and MG fairytale retelling out on submission.

Read More

01 Feb

When They Go

General/Column No Response

I open my arms and call my children to me, remind them
that nothing bad ever happens so long as I’m holding them.
My daughter wrinkles her nose at me and rolls her eyes, my son
just ignores me and walks away. I am no longer regarded as sanctuary
a bulwark against precocious misery and frustration, they don’t need me at all.
I close my arms, wrap myself in an empty embrace

dream of being the sort of mother children flock to unquestioningly
a fish mother who opens her maw to engulf hordes of trusting fry
a scorpion mother carrying her ravenous children across the hot desert
a snake mother nested in a knot of wriggling coils of tiny tails and teeth
all of these things but what I am: incomplete without a tiny hand in mine
a sweaty head pressed against my chest, a stream of constant needs that only I can fill.


Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, Piano All-in-One for Dummies, Walking Twin Cities, Insider’s Guide to the Twin Cities, Nordeast Minneapolis: A History, and The Book Of, while her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry book, Ugly Girl, just came out from Shoe Music Press.

Read More

01 Feb

No Casual Love

In Mother Words Blog 3 Responses

I waited a long time to have a baby. Not that it seemed that way, from the outside. I got pregnant after seven months of trying, seven months of marriage. The pregnancy was relatively easy, other than the nine months of nausea and morning-noon-and-night sickness that never really abated. So I cannot and do not lay claim to a difficult time conceiving, or any great trouble with pregnancy. But I did wait, my whole life, thirty-seven years, for that perfect gift, a baby all of my own.

I am a school teacher, and I remember wondering, once in a while, if I would find it hard to work all day with children and then come home to a child. Would I have the energy? The patience? I did enjoy my alone time, after all. Then my little girl arrived, and all thoughts of wanting to spend time with anyone else flew out of my head.

This is not a casual love, you see. I know that anyone who has succumbed wholeheartedly to the deep love of a child will understand. This love is all consuming, like a fire that rages up the side of an old building, devouring everything in its path. This love cannot be described by the “love you to the moon and back” of story books, though that comes close.

I watch other moms, seemingly carefree, and wonder how they do it. Every time I am apart from my daughter, while I am of course distracted by work, life, my iPhone, I often feel, deep down, a stab of what if…? What if I drive around the corner to our street and see an ambulance parked in front of the daycare? What if she stops breathing? What if she slips and falls and bangs her head on one of her many wooden blocks, and then dies? The thought of something happening to her is breath-taking in its depth and breadth of imagination. I know I am prone to anxious thoughts, that I find it easier to lay awake worrying than to fall asleep, but this is something on a whole other level.

I understand now, how many of John Irving’s novels are driven by what he fears the most: loss of a child. I understand now, how having a child is like having your heart exist permanently on the outside of your body. What I don’t understand, is how to take this new great love, braided together with this new great fear, and then continue living. How do you assimilate it into your life and move forward?

I assume that all parents feel this, on some level. I know my mommy friends wake up to the slightest hitch in breath, a mouse squeak of a cry, when before parenthood, they could sleep through the garbage truck going by. At my last home, we lived around the corner from the fire station and I tuned out the nightly sirens. Now, the mere suggestion of a potential waking up and I am alert, padding down the hall to peek in the nursery, waiting to see her chest rise and fall.

It started a few days after finding out I was pregnant. I had this idea that the fetus could and perhaps would just fall out, and of course that didn’t happen. This underlying fear is a constant, but it is like a piece of music, lulling into a soft interlude, and then flaring up with brass instruments and drumming. My daughter is fine, strong and healthy, and more independent by the day. If she knew how I felt, and understood it, she would push my hands away and march on, on her incessant quest to do more, see more, play more, with no time for maternal worries.

I can learn from her, her fearlessness, her absolute trust in my ability to catch her and keep her safe. She likes to play “up, up, down,” sitting up and then pitching herself backwards, usually on the bed, but occasionally on my lap. Why did I ever teach her that game? Making a diaper change more fun, one day, and now an unpredictable behaviour, one more thing to worry about.

I don’t want to pass this anxiety to her and so I keep it at bay, ever smiling at her courageous exploration of the world. I am there to offer hugs, kiss bumped head and knees, and cheer her on. I am a soft place to land, not a restraint. She is going to make her own way in the world, supported by the love of her parents, not hindered by it.


Stephanie Burke is an elementary teacher by day, and a writer by both early morning and late at night. She typically writes fiction, but enjoys writing personal essays as well. Her daughter, Nora, is sixteen months old.

Read More

29 Jan

Para todas las mamas

General/Column 2 Responses

whose hearts have been cleaved
in two by border walls

when they pass at night in secret
without papers, their bebés left behind

in the arms of las abuelas, the hope of
una vida diferente, una vida mejor

the siren call that leads them to the walls
topped with barbed wires that catch

at their still-beating hearts as they climb
up and over, leave trails of blood through

the desert, finger rosaries and chant
Un rato, no más y regreso, just a short time,

and I’ll return, raw fingers scrub hotel toilets,
wash crusty restaurant dishes in scalding water,

pluck feathers in turkey plants, the stench of death
in their nostrils, bend and pick sugar beets

fourteen hours a day under the brutal sun. Live with
ten people in a one-bedroom apartment, eat tortillas,

only tortillas, spend no money, wire it all to
la abuela to pay school fees, buy a Barbie, shiny black

shoes, a white lace dress. Talk on the phone, Tu mami
te ama, princesa. Pronto, pronto nos veremos, si Diós

quiere. Te prometo, mijita. Te prometo. One day
we will pass through the wall. Like ghosts, we will pass.


Jennifer Hernandez lives in the Minneapolis area where she teaches middle school ESL, wrangles three sons and writes for her sanity. Her work has appeared recently in Mothers Always Write, Silver Birch Press, Talking Stick and Visual Verse. She has performed her poetry at a non-profit garage, a bike shop filled with taxidermy and in the kitchen for her children, who are probably her toughest audience.

Read More