Still curled new,
you unravel the rhythm of my days
like woollen threads
on little striped gloves,
slipping from your fists.
Hot chocolate outdoors,
last of the sweater weather.
Crisp leaves scurrying
beneath new pram wheels,
nudged before me
in the aching space
where my bump once existed.
You are awake,
the dream loses its soft focus,
a gentle jolt
to the unpoetic
practicalities of settling you.
A glove falls to the ground,
in an instant
you are mine.
Gerry Stewart is a mother of 4 currently living in Finland, though in a previous life she was a creative writing tutor and editor in Scotland. Her collection ‘Post-Holiday Blues’ was published by Flambard Press in 2006.
an orange nestles in my palm like an unopened rosebud my children flock around me like baby birds their eager mouths waiting for a honey-gold crescent I dig in my nail and peel back the thick porous skin juice and pulp quivering beneath membranes as light as cobwebs phosphorescent particles
glitter on my fingers as the tangy scent of orange nectar flutters up to my nose like a curious hummingbird my children scatter prizes clutched in hand I watch them with a smile my little sparrows nourished by my love and the fruit I peel with my own two hands
Ophelia Leong has been published in Mothers Always Write, Allegro Poetry, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Saturday Night Reader, among others. She is a stay at home mom to three children and she writes and does Irish Dance in her spare time. She is working on her first novel. She blogs here: Ophelialeong.blogspot.com or you can find her on Twitter @OpheliaLeong.
are like an ambush of cat tongues.
Pink and small and abundant, rough scratches
on my face, my arms, my hair.
This is a common trial for introverted parents.
It is a common feeling, this one of drowning
in what fills up your chest.
Renee Beauregard Lute is a graduate of the MFA program at Hamline University in St. Paul, and her work has been published in a number of literary journals and magazines, including Bellevue Literary Review, Mamalode, and Literary Mama.
The fascination of the day, the word
cutting a deep groove in her mind
like urgent rainwater: flood—
“when it rains and rains and rains
and water rises and rises and sweeps cars
down the street,” she says with a flourish of lips
and arms after watching a YouTube montage—
Pennsylvania towns like Bloomsburg
and Hershey drowning in September, 2011.
“You were a baby,” I tell her,
“so you don’t remember your stroller ride
down muddy Broad Street, Montoursville,
after the Loyalsock receded.”
We gawked at ruined homes; she napped
to the drone of Shop-Vacs and water pumps.
“Our town flooded?” she asks and waits.
A speck of Ark floats in each wide blue eye.
Shanna Powlus Wheeler directs the Writing Center at Lycoming College. Her poetry chapbook, Lo & Behold, was published by Finishing Line Press. Individual poems of hers have appeared in a wide range of magazines and journals, including Literary Mama and The Mom Egg. She lives with her husband and daughter near Williamsport, PA.