by Jeri Theriault
by Marion Brown
Night blots out the Olympic
Range. My daughter and I
make do with what might be
Cassiopeia. I’ve crossed an ice-
locked continent to lean my leg
on hers, to gaze into nightfall
before I sleep. She cradles
a laptop. A Libra, she weighs
what she reads: fetal cells
get left behind. Not a foreign
tourist, a fetus hangs on.
The alien never goes home.
She and I both harbor some
exotic code. Looking out,
primed for a far-off message,
my daughter does not name
the heartbeat that stopped.
I know a few specifics
but not the one to wean her
from love. (Press a torn
aloe leaf against the burn.)
I, too, squint and peer,
taking in stars far away
or long gone out. In my
solar system, daughter cells
must be orbiting moons
too close for me to see.
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A Yonkers resident, Marion Brown holds a B.A. from Mount Holyoke College and Ph.D. from Columbia University. Finishing Line Press published her chapbooks Tasted and The Morning After Summer. Her poem “In the Dock, Fagin Reflects” won the Portico Poetry Competition. Other poems have appeared in Guesthouse, the Women’s Review of Books, Kestrel, The Night Heron Barks, and DIAGRAM. She serves on the Advisory Committee of Slapering Hol Press and Graywolf’s National Council.
by Rebecca Hart Olander
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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Mine died when I hit middle age, he still young
at sixty-eight. I’ll never say we’re through.
He is that creature under the cold Atlantic blanket,
migratory mammal, singing a complex song,
large heart beating in time with mine, wide cetacean
smile, throat pleats, fluke, and fin. All that potential
lamplight and winter warmth stored in his immortal bulk.
No harvested baleen, no corset bone. He’ll never stop
his route, though sometimes he needs to breach,
and once I dreamed he beached. I tried to drag him back
to the surf, where the salt could lick his wounds
and he could open one eye to the sun.
But that was a nightmare. The truth is in the Gulf
Stream, dark shadow spouting, swimming with seals.
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Rebecca Hart Olander’s poetry has appeared recently in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Jet Fuel Review, The Massachusetts Review, and elsewhere, and her collaborative visual and written work has been published in multiple venues online and in They Said: A Multi-Genre Anthology of Contemporary Collaborative Writing (Black Lawrence Press, 2018). Her books include a chapbook, Dressing the Wounds (dancing girl press, 2019), and her debut full-length collection, Uncertain Acrobats (CavanKerry Press, 2021). She teaches writing at Westfield State University and Amherst College and works with poets in the Maslow Family Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is the editor/director of Perugia Press. Find her online at rebeccahartolander.com or @rholanderpoet.
by Andrea Carter
Epiphyllum oxypetalum
No need for the moon
if she is open after dark,
completely awake, a circus
of exposure. Fear to touch
her. She could slip her concentric
tongues around an index finger, or
the finger that used to wear
a ring for the pleasure of being
a de-flower, an already at an end.
Her blossom is a honeymoon, all
through the night and gone at the first
insistence of sun. Her dry sickle,
the pink cloak in the morning,
a real marriage with its hints of blood
and bloodlessness, a white-
on-white-on-white derangement,
spiked petals unlocking, un-fisting,
unleashing, her expulsion.
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Andrea Carter is a poet and writer from Southern California. Her work appears in Quartet, San Diego Poetry Annual, Fourteen Hills, and The Florida Review. She is a recent Bread Loaf alum and is finishing her second novel in a YA murder mystery series. She enjoys hiking, travel, surfing, and drinking lots of coffee. She is a lecturer at UC San Diego in the Muir College Writing Program.
by Jody Winer
by Mistee St. Clair
The houseplants have been left to dry and dust
so I repot, gently run my fingers through the roots, shake and untangle.
I could marry all my old lovers.
One loosening my hair with clever fingers.
One with wide, calloused palms at the stem of my back.
Another’s body hot as a horse.
Marry them all and still I disappear.
I wet a cloth to leaves until they shine
and imagine the shock of air against wet skin, imagine electricity
currenting the salt of sweat, imagine a starfish shivering as the tide bares.
The absence of touch has become ordinary.
I touch these leaves and one universe over,
separated by the silver band of a ring, she shudders.
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Mistee St. Clair is the author of the chapbook, This Morning is Different, an Alaska Literary Award grantee, and has poems forthcoming in or published by The Common, Northwest Review, and more. She lives with her family and border collie in Juneau, Alaska, a northern rainforest, where she is an editor for the Alaska State Legislature. She can be found at misteestclair.com.
by Kristin Entler
my body slab-flat on a metal table;
my jaw pulled toward the ceiling;
my tongue held to make room for the rigid
tubes in my throat. Nurses swaddle my legs
in warm blankets simply because I said I’m cold.
Straps secure across my thighs because feral
when unconscious, survival brain will try to keep
anyone out. But I signed the forms for anything
that goes wrong or right for the hours I am
given to the professionals reaching into my chest.
Cradling pieces of my flesh and bone, they know of me
what I never will: the color of the inside of my lungs;
the sound a wheeze makes with my larynx exposed;
the crippled state of my blood before it reaches the heart.
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Kristin Entler was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at six months old, and first came out as LGBT+ several years after her diabetes diagnosis at 12 years old. She currently serves as Poetry Editor for NELLE and lives with her service-dog-in-training, Azzie, whose name is short for the Greek God of Medicine. Entler can be found in publications such as The Bitter Southerner, Porter House Review, and BOOTH, among others, as well as on twitter @findmycure.
by Sarah Wetzel
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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I wanted to tell her that I knew the truth—
she didn't adopt her dog from a kill shelter,
which is what she was telling a group of us.
I held my tongue for fear of appearing petty.
We all want to be better than we are.
Yesterday, my brother called and asked for money.
At first, I told him no.
But he'd received the third notice from Georgia Power
so I paid his $700 electric bill though told him
never again, unless his wife got a job, any job.
I cc'ed her on the email.
She wrote back, you're an awful person
with a mixture of rage and bitterness I could hear
even on the screen. Still, this time
I meant it. I overheard the woman at the party
tell her friend they'd actually purchased the dog
from a breeder in upstate New York.
We spent so much money, we could have adopted
a baby from China. I found her statement funny.
I want to be better. I want to save a dog, to save
my brother. I want to tread lightly on this world without
leaving footprints or too many
plastic wrappers. I want to see Singapore
and Vietnam, to spend a summer in Italy writing
short stories and a sonnet or two.
Learn to tango and foxtrot equally well.
I want to be good. I want to write one poem so perfect
that when I'm dead, a stranger will pin it to the wall,
perhaps even claim it as their own.
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Sarah Wetzel is the author of three poetry collections, most recently The Davids Inside David, from Terrapin Books. Sarah is Publisher and Editor at Saturnalia Books, and when not shuttling between her two geographic loves—Rome, Italy and New York City—she is a PhD student in Comparative Literature in the CUNY Graduate Center in New York City. You can connect at facebook.com/sarah.wetzel.3 or on Instagram @sarahwetz.
by Sarah Elkins
My son takes a closeup photo of my face in profile
from the passenger seat. At the red light
he shows me the soft underbelly of my jaw,
how it’s giving up. What is this?! he asks
in mock disgust at my weakness in the face
of time. And, it’s true, I have forgotten
how to smile for cameras. I say fuck too
freely. I don’t swap my fork to the opposite
hand to cut my steak, haven’t taught him to
either. I pee in the shower and take swigs
of heavy whipping cream while standing
at the fridge suspending the carton over
my mouth without touching my lip to the rim.
I’m not a heathen, after all. I use the words
space and gravity and god interchangeably.
I blow my nose inside the collar of my t-shirt.
It’s allergy season so this is permitted. I have
laughed and laughed. I love this wet and
recyclable body that contracts to bleed, expands
into the waxing phase of the moon and repeats.
It takes so long to get that know-some-shit glow.
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Sarah Elkins lives in southern West Virginia. Her work is forthcoming from or has recently appeared in Cimarron Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, West Trestle Review, Porter House Review, and elsewhere. In 2022, her poem “Water Tension” was a finalist for the 2021 Quarterly West Poetry Contest.
by Bonnie Bostrom
She was a mirror until the sun struck. Shattering,
She was image on image; tiny glittering splinters.
In a Navajo blanket, with sunset painted
On her face,
She raised a Coca-Cola bottle as a sign
That she would be victorious.
She ran non-stop, fourteen miles
To stand in sweat before
A sacred statue,
Got caught at the same place in dreams,
Always nine miles from home.
She threw jeweled rings into the sky
To pass a certain test;
The proctor was invisible.
On an emergency room table, she
Irritated the staff by giving birth to all
The planets and letting oceans spill from her mouth.
At times she bowed and heard applause
From primordial places when
The script went well.
Then, her usual tricks with words didn’t work,
And the juggling got dangerous.
She saw Christ erupting from her heart,
Filling her bed with red and joy
But the world hadn’t ended for anybody else.
She gathered the brightest jigsaw pieces,
Tried forcing them into frames
Without cutting to the quick;
Saw them beckon,
Demanding her allegiance
To each shining part.
She flew away with them
Into the sun.
Her children suffered some but thought her
Entertaining when she danced.
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Bonnie Bostrom is a vintage woman (83 years old) and has published nine books either solo or in collaboration with other poets and artists. Her writing has been published in The Sun, The Thornleigh Review, Cholla Needles, and The Ball State Forum. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming at the following online sites: Every Day Fiction, Canary, and A Stray Branch. Her website is bonniebostrom.com.
by Michelle Bitting
Barreling down a coastal road, Supertramp’s
“Dreamer” takes over the radio, Roger Hodgson’s
fingers drilling the dash open. It’s the sound of 40 years
ago and a red tide—swarms of slippery, stinking fish
washed up—goners, all of them, rotting in a hot Pacific
shimmer. And my brother is there with me at a lunar edge
of wet: full moon glint, sulfur whiff, stiff bodies like spilled
quivers of small, silvery arrows pointing every whack way
around us, their stilled eyes wide like sinking babies flopped
in sopping blankets of shore, schools of strewn clock guts,
a splayed and gritty spawning. My brother and I sing along,
our car stopped, listening from the highway, letting the night
and sea chaos carry us: dreamer, you know you are a dreamer…
and we're in sync, somehow, same words, same starry string
of plinked notes chiming the night around crystalized breath.
It was like this: our skins close and a mineral breeze clouding
eyes, blowing back salt-ashed hair, the just-detected distant
spiral jetties. We unbolted metal doors to barefoot skate
the sand berms down, feel a cold crack of waves slap toes.
Stoned on weed and much too high to maneuver our muddied
minds and feet inside whatever plots we were churning, Brother,
whatever in our youth we thought ourselves big enough
to handle, whatever tides and misdemeanors, no worse
than what your hand would steer our way—your demise,
suicide—that ancient refrain recorded: a shocking dream
that wakes in song, even now, the human and remains.
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Michelle Bitting is the author of five poetry collections: Good Friday Kiss, winner of the inaugural De Novo First Book Award; Notes to the Beloved, which won the Sacramento Poetry Center Book Award; The Couple Who Fell to Earth; Broken Kingdom, winner of the 2018 Catamaran Poetry Prize and a recipient of a starred Kirkus Review; and Nightmares & Miracles (Two Sylvias Press, 2022), winner of the Wilder Prize and recently named one of Kirkus Reviews 2022 Best of Indie. Her chapbook, Dummy Ventriloquist, is forthcoming from C & R Press in 2023. Bitting is a lecturer in poetry and creative writing at Loyola Marymount University and in film studies at University of Arizona Global.
by Martha Silanno
and a tomato is the metonym for my childhood—
my father spreading cow manure,
saying when the seeds
get a whiff of that stench they’ll jump clear out of the ground.
I believed him, believed everything he told me,
including that he loved me,
including, when he let me drop three seeds into each hole,
he’d never raise his voice, never call me dumb bunny
again. What else but a tomato? To savor one
is to understand tomatoes were considered poisonous
until the 1600s, that tomato sauce was born
in Naples, birthplace
of my father’s father, soil of my father’s roots.
Tomato because my father loved them more
than his children, the proof being
that when our kickball landed in his garden,
snapped a seedling stem, he pulled out
his pocketknife, slit the ball in two.
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Martha Silano’s most recent collection is Gravity Assist (Saturnalia Books, 2019). Previous collections include Reckless Lovely and The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, also from Saturnalia Books. Martha’s poems have recently appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Bennington Review, and Colorado Review, among others. Honors include the North American Review’s James Hearst Poetry Prize and The Cincinnati Review’s Robert and Adele Schiff Award. She teaches at Bellevue College. Learn more at marthasilano.net.
by Yaddyra Peralta
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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by Jane Zwart
Almost always it is widows
trying the windchimes.
From technique you can tell
who played tetherball
and which ones flattered
men in uniform, brushing
their shirt fronts free of crumbs.
A few pretend they are there
to buy. Methodical as hand models,
they lift the price tags tied
to bamboo chandeliers
before filling the store
with reports of puppet kendo.
Others start small, browsing
a finger across pipes
sawed from dollhouse organs.
And then there are those
who look both ways before
they swing floating smoke stacks
with whole belfries for echoes.
Sometimes, one says, it’s a relief
being unable to predict
the magnitude of the sound
you’re about to set ringing.
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Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review, TriQuarterly, and Ploughshares, as well as other journals and magazines.
by V. A. Bettencourt
by Lillian Emerick Valentine
by Rachel Neve-Midbar
Crooked teeth, chipmunk cheeks, all ears—your mind
is the mirror, and the mirror is the
gap you can step into, a place to hide—
Gary Nadir beneath you on the slide.
He lifts your skirt: your panties on display
as you fall through the breach, a cave of shame—
Morning toast confined in your mouth all day
[so you don’t have to swallow what you hate]
Gary Nadir stretched underneath your swing,
under your desk, behind you on the slide—
Gary Nadir follows you through the school gate—
He lifts your skirt, your panties on display.
The nurse says lice, lines wrong in the school play—
you fall through—you fall through, you fall through
a catalog of shames—
You beg your mother to wear slacks to school.
Gary N.’s rage when he raises your skirt
to uncover the shorts you snuck from home.
At recess you bolt through the trees
that surround the playground. He’s after you,
ultimately shoves you to the ground—
On your back in the pine nettles, he rips
away your shorts, even your panties with
surprising ease— and he sees, and he sees,
and he sees—
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Rachel Neve-Midbar is a poet and essayist. Her first full-length poetry collection, Salaam of Birds (Tebot Bach 2020) was chosen by Dorothy Barresi for the Patricia Bibby First Book Prize. She is also the author of the 2014 chapbook, What the Light Reveals. Her work has appeared in Blackbird, The Georgia Review, and Grist as well as other journals and anthologies. Rachel is a current PhD candidate at The University of Southern California.
by Taylor Altman
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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Past Skokie lawns flat as cemeteries
and airport buildings passing the sherbet colors of evening
down Harms Road, past the College Prep Academy, a group of boys
hacks through June’s first greenery
dreaming of the city on the other side, Lake Michigan’s
icy cut, mafiosos trailing blue Fibonacci spirals of smoke
from speakeasies and casinos. They don’t know
that other city, the ghost city beneath the lake, zoned
within its loneliness like a boy on the last day
of his childhood, turning inward to a shore unknown
to his father and brothers, the sheer blue panels
of a Calder mobile. The lake is full of stories, voices
and stories, boys stripped naked to the waist
and flayed by poison ivy, boys becoming
trees, becoming air, the circus of clouds moving silently
across the Plains suffused with light
from a distant star and floating back to earth, becoming the men
who work the great belching factories of Detroit
and Kenosha, expressions forged in steel, who press the levers
and pistons resounding in the vast cathedral
of work, holiest of names unspoken, the evening clouds
piling one atop the other, concatenating
like stories, twisting, funneling, each more intricate
than the last, bone-delicate and pale, sifted from the throats
of boys who float chained to one another
and the shore, a line of empty boats rocking end to end
in the fathomless kingdom of night.
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Taylor Altman is an attorney and writer based in Las Vegas, NV. She holds a BA from Stanford University, an MFA from Boston University, and a JD from the University of California, Berkeley, School of Law.
by Brett Warren
I wear socks in my mom’s favorite color, pray to her
a little as I’m led to the vestibule by a woman
who explains how the gown ties in front,
which I already know. But I don’t interrupt.
It’s bad luck to keep a woman from doing her job.
And maybe her words are a ritual blessing.
I thank her and enter the changing room,
trade everything I have for a thin cotton gown,
emerge with my clothes balled up under my arm.
I search the bank of lockers for a lucky number,
but all my usuals are taken. Then I see it: 22.
The year and the day I’m standing in, the minute
the clock-hand just landed on. The lanyard
dangling from locker 22 is purple, the exact purple
of the winter coat my mom always wore
before she began to disappear. I stuff everything
inside, close and lock the skinny door, slip
the purple coil around my wrist. Luck turns the key
into a protection charm, the interior waiting room
into a temple of filtered light. We enter, one at a time,
to sit together in silence. In our identical habits,
we look more like our mothers than on most days.
We leaf through magazines or pretend to watch
the news, which someone, probably a nurse,
has muted.
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Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Canary, The Comstock Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Hole in the Head Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Massachusetts, in a house surrounded by pitch pine and black oak trees—nighttime roosts of wild turkeys, who sometimes use the roof of her writing attic as a runway.
by Susana H. Case