Poems & Essays

21 Sep


General/Column No Response

She looks into the mirror
as she dresses for her first day
of college, unsure of the beauty
emerging in the curves
of her face, and so full of hope.

I want to take her face
in a hold that is gentle yet firm,
and tell her to keep faith, that
there is a life like she imagines,
with someone who will see her,
who will feel her,
who will know her.

I want to hold her with a fierceness
that would scare her, and tell her
to mother the babies, not the men,

and to warn her that not all
who have vision will use it
with the best intentions.

I want to make a salve
that lets her know her worth
and rub it into every pore,
into her very soul.

She draws a breath, sets
her shoulders, and for the first time
I see the grace in her arms
as in wings poised for flight.


Sharyl Collin started writing poetry about four years ago. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including Mason’s Road Literary Journal, Wild Goose Poetry Review, *82 Review, The Intentional and Lummox.

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21 Sep


General/Column No Response

We didn’t want to go home
after a month of living with our tía
who fed us Hohos and Pepsi,
who let us stay up past midnight,
let us sleep in till noon,
let us walk to the pool alone,
or spend all day playing Mario Bros.
Call us traitors.

Could you blame us?
With our home so freshly haunted
by your fallopian tubes,
your ovaries, your uterus,
sliced from your youngish body
by the cold edge of a doctor’s knife,
my sister and I, at thirteen and ten,
nothing but reminders of a trick
your body by force
gave up to the Ghost.

Did we know we were cruel
when you came for us, and we wailed,
hid under our cousin’s bed?
Does any child ever comprehend
they hold their mother’s Everythingness
inside their small fists?
How they might summon
with their adolescent nerve, Medea,
from spent, half-eaten women?

In that suicide trip
back to our house on Viall Street,
you unlatched your seatbelt,
tears erasing the yellow dashed highway,
your foot like lead on the gas till the dead
hills and slight patches of green bled
color into earthen color outside our windows,
the desert flashing its mad smile.

To this day we can’t remember
what my sister said, only how
the tone of her voice, flat but superior,
urged your foot from the petal,
compelled your hand to wipe the wet
from your eyes and let us live another day
inside the stew of your multiplying regrets.


Kristy Webster is a writer, artist and mother of two. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific Lutheran University and her Bachelor’s Degree from the Evergreen State College where she majored in creative writing, visual arts, and feminist studies. Her work has appeared in several online journals such as Lunch Ticket, Pithead Chapel, The Feminist Wire, Shark Reef Literary Magazine, Pacifica Literary Review, The Molotov Cocktail, Connotation Press, A Word With You Press, A Fly in Amber and in two print anthologies by GirlChildPress. She lives in Port Townsend, Washington.



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21 Sep

The Golden Days Are Numbered

General/Column 4 Responses

The golden days are numbered
I fear the end of this.

The sun shines its way
through the seeds of flood,
and you my rainbow maker
sitting in ferns by the stream
cool mud on your knees
speckling light striking our shade.
You are all a mutter, all in song:
Blackberries, dragonfly vexing,
In the “new place” before Eden came,
Tiger lilies and sentinel pines
Stood watch for us there in the wood.

The lost gilding days may haunt us,
may teach us to sorrow before we should,
but you should know that we were
together there in the seed days of your life.
That if we no longer speak of it
When we are old like bark and stone,
we were there together once
where there was no enemy,
only Joy songs, solid, strong, certain,
Sung together with my son.

Let us not fear the end,
But beg on golden days anew.


Rebecca King sometimes wishes there were more quiet moments in the day. A professional painter, homeschooling mom to her three children, owner builder project manager, and quiet corner poet, King finds little spaces to eek out feeling in blank pages. The daughter of C.S. Lewis scholar, Don W. King, her fondest childhood memories are of being read to by her father. To relive that experience, King has been reading aloud daily to her children since they were born just to be sure they remember it too. She lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband Paul, children Ezra, Eden and Orin and is growing larger every day with expectation waiting for identical twin baby girls due in October.

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21 Sep

Goat’s Adventures Abroad

General/Column 2 Responses


It was night by the time we arrived in Brunswick, and I wasn’t feeling well. Achy, dizzy, not myself. By sheer force of will, I had managed the flights from Paris to Newark, Newark to Portland, and then the drive from Portland to Brunswick, where we would see our daughter, Cordelia, as Antigone in Anouilh’s Antigone the next night. We ate dinner with her director, a lovely man whose affection for our daughter and respect for our ten-year old son, Atticus, impressed me. Atticus liked him, too, though jet lag got him, and he fell asleep on an ottoman. Finally back at the inn, my husband, son, and I tumbled into bed.

In the middle of the night, I wake with an Uh oh feeling. Where is Goat?

Goat, whose formal name is Elijah Vanilla Crème Goat, traveled to London and Paris with us over Spring Break, seeing the sights and offering a friendly ear to a boy who is not so sure about unfamiliar places. I remember stuffing him into Atticus’ backpack when we left London, but suddenly, I have no memory of packing him early this morning, when, groggy, we left our miniature hotel room in Paris. I clamber out of bed and use my Itty Bitty Book light to locate the backpack, which I unzip quietly. I feel around. No white fur. No Goat. As I feared, Goat has stayed in Paris.

I feel like crying. “Bad mother,” I punish myself, despite the fact that my son is ten and perfectly capable of looking after his things. Except that we left Paris at 4 a.m., and none of us was firing on all pistons.

What to do? What to do? I know Atticus will be crushed. He is too old to accept a new Goat, a trick I tried once when he was three and his beloved Tubby had been mislaid. When the original, a pale green hippo with pink paws, was discovered, we had Tubby One and Tubby Two.

Goat is the last. Atticus and I have talked about this. He has always loved stuffed animals; animals ring his bed—penguins, dogs, rabbits. He sleeps with Goat and a small bear called Capitan, from Commedia dell’Arte. His sisters, ever so much older, have matching bears with Commedia names, too—Smeraldina and Columbine. The hazards of a theatre family—even our animals get names from Shakespeare or mythology. Goat, named entirely by Atticus, was the last new acquisition to my son’s menagerie. “Enough,” I said irritated last fall. “There are too many stuffed animals in this room, on this bed. No more animals.”

My exasperation, I know, is tied up in Atticus’ pleasure in remaining a little boy. By his own admission, he worries about getting older, is reluctant to grow up, to take on school work, to show how competent he is. And a piece of me empathizes with his fear. It’s nice to be cared for, to have few obligations, to have a Mom and Dad who swoop in to fix things. I explain that his reading by himself doesn’t mean I won’t read to him, and that his managing his homework independently doesn’t mean we’ll throw him to the wolves. The year has been a struggle.

He sees his sisters working hard in college. He sees me working hard as the Head of the School on whose property we live but which he, being a boy, had to leave before kindergarten. He sees his Dad working hard as a math teacher at my school. He feels cheated. He hates that he is so much younger than his sisters, hates having to do much that does not involve the Disney Channel.

Last fall, we went shopping for a baby gift, and Atticus spied Goat in a lovely boutique. “Look, Mom. He’s so great. He looks distinguished. Look at his beard.”

“No,” I said firmly. “We agreed. No more animals.”

Sadly, Atticus muttered, “I don’t have any goats,” but reluctantly returned Goat to the shelf. Secretly, in a mixed-messages mothering move, I snuck back and purchased Goat, hiding him from Atticus. I tucked him into the top of my boy’s stocking, where he was joyfully discovered on Christmas morning.

We named him that night as Atticus solemnly contemplated the animal he knew would be the last stuffed companion to come into the house. “He looks like the little blue cups of half and half I drink at First Watch, Vanilla Crème.”

“Okay, anything else? Want to call him Vanilla Crème Brulee?” I ask. Names matter. And I love Crème Brulee.

“Nope. Elijah. Elijah Vanilla Crème.”

“With Goat as his last name?”

“Yes, but I might call him Goat for short.”

“Sounds sensible.”

Often after I read to him at night, Atticus my philosopher offers me his musings. This night he says, “Sometimes Christmas is hard, Mom. I look forward to it for so long, but then the girls don’t even want to do anything.”

“Well, we went to the Annie movie.”

“Yea, I guess it was okay.”

“I agree. It was medium.”

“But you gave me Goat, Mom. That was pretty great.”

“I’m glad. It’s fun to have surprises sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says, drowsy. Theirs was not a long relationship, but one that mattered.


At 2 a.m., from my bed in chilly Brunswick, I do not have the heart to wake my husband, who is finally in deep slumber. Fretting, I email Lili, my former student, who lives in Paris. We had been with her the night before. She lives in the Marais across from the Pompidou, and Atticus, suspicious of Paris because it felt darker and drearier than London—possibly because it rained most of the time we were there—loved her. He even ate the savory crepes her fiancé prepared; it had been a magical final evening. I write, “Don’t laugh. Could you call the Odeon St. Germain and see if they found Goat, Atticus’ lovey? I think he slipped down between the beds. He’s white, so I think I just missed him.”

In moments she writes back, “They have him!” I thank her extravagantly. Relieved, I give in to illness and jet lag and go back to sleep.

In the morning, Atticus pokes me gently at the side of my bed, eyes brimming, “Mom, I can’t find Goat.”

“Honey, he decided to take an extra day in Paris. He wanted to visit the Pompidou. Lili is sending him home tomorrow.”

“He stayed in Paris?” Atticus is incredulous, disbelieving.

“Yep. He liked the crepes.”

“You’re teasing. Did we forget him?”

“What’s going on?” my husband asks groggily.

“We lost Goat,” Atticus quavers.

“We didn’t lose him,” I explain to Seth. “We know where he is. Lili has him and she is sending him tomorrow.”

Seth asks, “You talked to Lili? It’s 7:00 a.m.?”

“I know. Email.” Seth rolls over. Atticus, soothed, goes back to his I-pad. Crisis averted. Atticus is okay. I am ill but much better than I had been at 2:00 in the morning. I am grateful that Lili saved the day. My mother-guilt is assuaged.

Later, Lili sends a photo of Goat to reassure Atticus. She writes, “Totally my pleasure to be walking around Paris with an adorable stuffed goat. The French word for a child’s sacred stuffed animal is ‘doudou,’ and they take these things very seriously—the hotel staff was sincerely concerned/protective/relieved.” Lucky Atticus to misplace a lovey in a land that values a child’s relationship with a stuffed toy.

We see Antigone. Cordelia is exceptional—fiery, vulnerable, authentic. Five minutes in, Atticus’s head droops onto my shoulder. He snores softly. I try to rouse him, but he is too tired. We are a pair—one over-tired boy, one sick mother. Only my husband, Seth, seems intact and alert, unscathed by jet lag. His experience working abroad serves him well; he travels light and adapts fast.

The next morning, Cordelia bustles into our room at the inn, administering Source Water, chosen for electrolytes, scolding me about dehydration, patiently watching her brother’s magic tricks from the kit he acquired at Hamley’s in London, the highlight of his trip. A few days later, we head back to Cleveland. Lili assures us that Goat is en route, and about a week later, he arrives. Atticus worries that Goat may have been harmed, squashed as he was into the padded envelope, but a quick shake and he is uncrumpled.

That night, once again, Atticus clutches Goat next to him in bed. “I liked London, Mom. I didn’t like Paris. I like home best.”

His eyelids flutter, lashes resting finally. I look at his silky dark hair, the round curve of his cheek. He needs to leave his little boy self at his own pace, not at mine. Goat may need to keep him company on the way. He is my own Peter Pan, my own Dorothy, refusing to grow up at anyone’s will but his own, and realizing, after his travels, that there’s no place like home. Sweet dreams, Atticus. Sweet dreams, Goat.


Ann Klotz is a mother, writer, teacher, and headmistress in Shaker Heights, OH where she writes most often about how these identities intersect. Her work has appeared in Independent School Magazine, Community Works Journal, The Legendary, and Motherload: An Anthology.






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