by Emily Lake Hansen
by Amanda Moore
Pretend it was a different adventure:
we traveled in our Chrysler down
8 Mile Road as if in a dinghy
gliding from the bright layer cake of yacht
toward an undiscovered port. Pretend
we were prepared for the awkwardness
of being foreign, of seeking flimsy familiarity
and the perfect snapshot to send home.
We pictured white sheets and hand-holding,
new scenery and our faces changed.
But really it was like the tropics in July: sweaty
and panting, private and primal.
Paradise to one traveler is often hell for another,
so I won’t bore you with the hours passed
watching the ocean swell and retreat,
the tall grasses bend and part in the wind
and some crazy, hooting monkey pulling itself up and down
impossibly straight tree trunks.
When we left at last we had a souvenir,
a golden idol shaped by heat
and meant to be worshipped.
"Labor as an Exotic Vacation" from Requeening by Amanada Moore. COPYRIGHT YEAR ©2021 by Amanda Moore. Courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers.
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Amanda Moore’s debut collection of poetry, Requeening, was selected for the National Poetry Series by Ocean Vuong and was published by Ecco in 2021. It was a finalist for the Northern California Book Award and featured in Oprah's O Magazine Favorite Things issue. Her poems, essays, and translations have appeared in journals and anthologies, including Best New Poets, ZZYZVA, Catapult, Ploughshares, and LitHub. A high school teacher who also leads poetry workshops and freelance edits and teaches, Amanda lives near the beach in San Francisco, California with her husband and daughter. More at amandapmoore.com.
by Ann Weil
At least I think it’s Banksy—
he’s graffiti-ing our corner booth
with little girls reaching for red heart balloons.
Our server gives him the stink-eye,
but Hillary’s stomach growls, distracting us all.
Hil orders a tempeh Reuben and a side
of sweet potato fries. Banksy’s not hungry,
but when the food comes, he turns
puppy-dog eyes on Hillary
and she shares her spuds. I offer him
a pull on my matcha-mango smoothie,
but the straw is soggy. Such is life.
Banksy is surprised that Hil
has taken up Bill’s vegan lifestyle—
apparently, she heard the grass
is always greener on the other side
of the fence, and in this case,
she reports, it actually is.
Hillary asks Banksy what it’s like
to be wildly famous without being known.
Banksy whispers in her ear,
mentioning her time as First Lady.
I order a slice of carrot cake
topped with cashew crème. Three forks.
Hillary wipes walnut dust from Banksy’s chin.
On the way out, Banksy paints a big blue
Hillary 2028 on the restaurant’s door.
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Ann Weil writes at her home on the corner of Stratford and Avon in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and on a deck boat at Snipe’s Point Sandbar off Key West, Florida. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and appears in Pedestal Magazine, DMQ Review, New World Writing Quarterly, The Shore, 3Elements Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman, was released in April 2023 from Yellow Arrow Publishing.
by Mukethe Kawinzi
Italian thistle has tithed most
to my cuttings these last days.
In later Junes, rough touch
recalled, I’ll spoor less bare.
I ask Charles Darwin: come
eye the goats with me, and how
they eat spined things.
Charles Darwin picks up a rock. He tells me the present is the key to the past.
I want Charles Darwin to know I know something. I want Charles Darwin to
remember me. I speak to him of beetles that bore earth. I tell Charles Darwin
that we have rollers here. I say to him: Charlie, I’ve watched them roll dung
face down/ass up. Do not question me for using 2 Live Crew as a way to
Charles Darwin’s heart. I have learned, in life: there is no slicker way to charm
whitefolk than to let them into blackness. Charles Darwin finishes the lyric.
Charles Darwin and I squat into the royalled ripgut, and count morning
spiderwebs.
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Mukethe Kawinzi is a shepherd who has appeared in Obsidian, Puerto del Sol, and HOBART. She is the author of saanens, nubians, one lamancha (Winner, 2022 Quarterly West Chapbook Contest) and rut (2022 Ghost City Press Summer Series). She herds goats on the open range in coastal California.
by Lisa Rosinsky
On the patio of the bar, with my notebook / and a glass of cabernet and a
thick slice of chocolate cake, it was all soft summer twilight and table to
myself / until two guys said you don’t mind if we join you do you / and since I
small-town knew the redhead, as in / met him at a party that one time, I said
okay / even though I was trying to write
The redhead pulled my cake across the table, you can’t finish all of this can
you, skinny thing like you? and I did want it / but he ate it without waiting for
an answer while his friend talked about their job putting up tents, pounding in
stakes and then pulling them out again, and his eyes / were the color of a tidal
pool, and I sipped my wine wishing you’d given me a ring already / so they
would have left me alone with my cake and my solitude
Wedding tents mostly, he said, you wouldn’t believe how they can transform
them with curtains and whatnot / it turns out nicer than a church, and they
both nodded, yes nicer than a church, and the blue-eyed one / who hadn’t
eaten my cake / showed me where on his arm the muscles tensed up after a
day of sledgehammering, and I laughed / but suddenly saw how in another
life, one without you in it, I might have wanted / to touch those arms, which
made everything go blurred and flimsy
Sometimes I do bounce houses too, he said, but they’re dangerous, did you hear
about the one that blew away, and I closed my notebook / and said what blew
away
The bounce house the redhead said, there were two kids in it / and a big gust of wind blew it fifty feet up into the sky, pulled the stakes right out of the ground
With the kids inside? I said, listening now, yeah with the kids inside he said, a
boy and a girl, they tumbled around at fifty feet up / and made it back down safe
/ only the boy had a broken arm but otherwise they were fine
And we sat there in silence picturing that, the three of us, with the cake
crumbs / and the wineglass and the unfinished / poem I’d been working on,
and within me the waiting seed of the son I’d have one day with you / though
I didn’t know that yet, that night, sitting there, it was just me and the
strangers and I ached / for those children carried by the wind, tumbling in a
house made of rubber and air.
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Lisa Rosinsky has been a finalist for the Slapering Hol Chapbook Prize, Fugue Poetry Contest, and Morton Marr Poetry Prize. She holds an MFA in poetry from Boston University. Her poems appear in Prairie Schooner, Cimarron Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. In 2016, she won the Writer-in-Residence fellowship at the Boston Public Library, where she completed her debut novel, Inevitable and Only, named one of Barnes & Noble’s “Most Anticipated Indie Novels of 2017.”
by Courtney Bambrick
I.
The girls sleepy, warm, milk-fed—
patient under the avuncular gaze of the artist. You say,
I love the way he works with hair and clothing.
You nose up to the canvas, admire craft.
My eyes are on the floor, the shoes
some women squeak through the hall.
II.
Renoir had young children in his 50s
and he painted them—
You could do that—
is all I can think in this room.
Let me bear you your Jean and Claude
and Gabrielle. Let me sit for you with a baby
at my breast. Let your gaze settle, then,
on what could be here: in my arm, my belly.
Let the whole of the universe open to you
in the rabbit breath of a sleeping baby.
III.
Large Bather. Hours since my shower, but
you sniff behind my ear and say
how great my hair smells. And,
Some of these nudes look like you.
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Courtney Bambrick serves as poetry editor at Philadelphia Stories. Her poetry is forthcoming in The American Poetry Review, and has appeared in New York Quarterly, Beyond Words, Invisible City, The Fanzine, Philadelphia Poets, Apiary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Mad Poets Review, and Certain Circuits. Chapbooks have been semi-finalists and finalists in contests for Iron Horse and Pavement Saw. She teaches writing at Thomas Jefferson University’s East Falls campus in Philadelphia.
by Jenny Molberg
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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I go to the museum and sit before Robert Motherwell’s
Elegy to the Spanish Republic with three black holes in my head.
One for the way I hated the poet when he called me stupid.
Another black hole because I felt like a child, carsick
and chicken. I don’t care what day it is, he said on my birthday.
Was he an aperture, opening inside me?
Or was he a bullet I must dodge for the rest of my life.
At the Cash America Pawn, I waited in line, the ring box
white as ivory, a severed tusk singeing a hole through my hand.
One more black hole, there, in the middle. The question
I asked in my head for a year: How can he think
he owns other people? Him, in the dark, calling my body
his. My breasts, my hair, my hips. I shout leave
into Motherwell’s circles. I know I can’t help it, the ring
in its strange case, cold as a head with no body.
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Jenny Molberg is the author of Marvels of the Invisible (winner of the Berkshire Prize, Tupelo Press, 2017), Refusal (LSU Press, 2020), and The Court of No Record (LSU Press, 2023). Her poems and essays have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Cincinnati Review, VIDA, The Missouri Review, The Rumpus, The Adroit Journal, Oprah Quarterly, and other publications. She has received fellowships and scholarships from the National Endowment for the Arts, VCCA, the Sewanee Writers Conference, Vermont Studio Center, and the Longleaf Writers Conference. She is Associate Professor and Chair of Creative Writing at the University of Central Missouri, where she edits Pleiades: Literature in Context. Find her online at jennymolberg.com.
by Kathy Jiang
by Caroline Earleywine
I now pronounce you your own. Give you back
your names, put down those titles: Mother, Father,
Wife, Husband. I pronounce you whole. Better
apart, but still better for once having found each
other. I pronounce you human. Both the stove
and the hand that touches it, if only to learn
what burns. I pronounce your every scar
well earned, roads on a worn map you used
to find your way home. I pronounce you home
and road. Minute and hour hand, together
briefly, moving forward. I pronounce you
the golden leaf and its inevitable
fall. I pronounce you deserving of space
to change, the hydrangea moved
from its pot into earth, roots stretched out
like an unclenched fist. I pronounce you worthy
of looking back with gentle eyes. Both the one
who held me in the backseat, my bleeding
knee in your lap, and the steady hand that drove
us to the hospital. I pronounce you both free
and forever bound, your four children stitched
between you like the binding of a book sewed
together by hand. I pronounce you the pages
and the cover that encases them.
Both the story I know
and the one you wrote without me.
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Caroline Earleywine is a poet and educator who taught high school English in Central Arkansas for ten years. She earned her MFA from Queens University in Charlotte, and Sibling Rivalry Press published her chapbook, Lesbian Fashion Struggles, in 2020. She is a Jack McCarthy Book Prize winner and her debut full-length collection, I Now Pronounce You, will be out with Write Bloody Publishing in April 2024. She lives in Little Rock with her wife and two dogs. You can keep up with her work at carolineearleywine.com.
by Shiyang Su
To night
I do not question
its warm reticence
against a flint
or its privation
a river
without unfoldings
dark and cool, without
scoopings of the moon
a copious body
coming down
like an empire
on which
I fold a paper boat
carry it over
the coppery lines
of the black earth
and believe in
a certain narrative
by a certain other
for whom
I keep the tributary
of language: digressive,
small-scale, defiant
as a fish
against the keel
splashing
with an armor
worn old
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Shiyang Su is a Chinese poet. These poems are excerpts from her in-progress collection concerning the struggle, agony, and loss in recent years, intensified by COVID and frequent social and political upheavals. Her other poems can be found or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, Blue Marble Review, Unbroken, Rattle, Passages North, and others. She was nominated for Best New Poets.
by Subhaga Crystal Bacon
You were not conceived, despite the spent seed,
the rich bed of blood. You did not laden my life
with bittersweet fruit: memorable sayings,
illness, brilliance, a body made of mine, either
like or unlike. Your gender is neutral, or,
it is your own, your selfness. You love who
and what you love with fire and ice. You are
a pearl of the world, gem of grit and spit,
that gives you a shell and a tongue both salty
and sweet. We speak once a day, week,
month, year, decade. I did you right
and wrong from my own pocket of wounds and stars.
Fleet as the scent of mock orange on the wind,
you are a blossom of loss, phantom limb.
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Subhaga Crystal Bacon (she/they) is a Queer poet living in rural northcentral Washington on unceded Methow land. She is the author of four collections of poetry, including Surrender of Water in Hidden Places, winner of the Red Flag Poetry Chapbook Prize (April 2023) and Transitory, recipient of the Isabella Gardner Award for Poetry (November 2023, BOA Editions).
by Virginia Chase Sutton
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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It is always twilight when Gramma runs
a tepid bath for my sister and me, four inches
of amber water from the well. Through the window
she watches her luminous garden grow dim, past
the row of outhouses gone to honeysuckle, cabbage roses,
crinkly petunias, vines holding late afternoon
to the ground. In summer nightgowns, carrying
a cracked ceramic chamber-pot between us, we climb
to the one-bedroom apartment where our parents lived
their first married year. Mother drank gin and bourbon
from bottles hidden under the bed and their thick voices
vibrated down the varnished stairs, creased the crimson
rug in Gramma’s front room. When we all visit, they
do not sleep together the way they once did. I pull back
tight covers on the bed in the room beneath gabled windows,
rumpling sheets Gramma spent the morning ironing,
slide into the bed’s furrow. My sister clambers up
the four-poster where Great-grandfather Carter died,
arguing our early bedtime. I do not mind smoky light
pooling under window-shades. Across the highway
hundreds of birds line branches of an old oak, their
voices loud inside this space. My sister is asleep in the front
room. I wait for my parents’ footsteps, foggy silence.
Then a smooth scoop in my bed when my father pulls
soft blankets to his shoulders, rolls into me. Then he sleeps.
Birds settle the night. My father’s breath drones. The birds
wake early. At last, dawn, I fantasize their twittering songs.
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Virginia Chase Sutton, along with Airea Johnson, Liz Robbins, and Lauren Tivey, is the co-author of Fire Carousel, an enhanced chapbook (Main Street Rag, 2023) about varying aspects of mental illness. Poems have recently appeared in Glass: Poets Resist, Mom Egg Review, Drunk Monkeys, Stained: An Anthology, and many other publications. Nine times nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Sutton has additionally published three full-length poetry books and a chapbook. Sutton lives in Tempe, Arizona.
by Rebekah Wolman
A mother and a child, I think, then reconsider.
It's a matter of perspective, of the angle and the distance,
whether one seems taller than the other, whether
one seems to take the lead as they tiptoe into
all that settles as the tide recedes.
It's where the light is coming from that elongates
their reflection. It's the direction and strength of the wind
that determines whether their mirror image
wobbles or stands still. There's little at this distance to differentiate them.
The slightest alteration yields regret,
a feeling that something should have happened differently.
I visit with my mother, who used to be
the taller one. Now time is what differentiates
who's the child from who's the mother. Each morning of my visit,
I sweep up Rose of Sharon blossoms, fallen furled
as if ready to begin again at their beginning.
As if ready to begin again at my beginning
I sweep up Rose of Sharon blossoms, fallen furled,
each morning of my visit—or as if she's the child and I'm the mother,
the taller one now. Time is what differentiates
this visit with my mother from what used to be,
a feeling that something could have happened differently.
Regret yields to the slightest alteration,
wobbles, then stands still. There's little at this distance to differentiate us
or determine whether our mirror image
is a true reflection. It's the direction and strength of the wind,
it's where the light is coming from, that elongates
all that settles as the tide recedes.
Who seems to take the lead as we tiptoe into
weather? One seems taller than the other, whether
it's a matter of perspective, of the angle or the distance.
A child and a mother, I think, then reconsider.
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Rebekah Wolman is an erstwhile middle-school principal based in San Francisco, California, on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramaytush Ohlone people. Her poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Sixfold, Limp Wrist, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Orotone, The Hopper, Atticus Review, and Cultural Daily, where she is a 2021 winner of the Jack Grapes Poetry Prize. She is the 2022 winner of the Small Orange Emerging Woman Poet Honor.
by Joan Kwon Glass
The billboard just before exit 21 displays a photo
of Rhonda, a middle-aged woman before weight loss surgery.
It promises that in one mile, we will meet a lighter version of her.
A church billboard asks if we have suffered enough.
I’ve started listening to audiobooks to distract myself
from the slow, painful, inching homeward. Today a narrator
explains the tendency of ancient peoples to form cultures
around rejection. Refusing the fishing canoe or superior
farming tool of a neighboring tribe–lineage determined
more by what is renounced than what is shared.
I am writing this poem about traffic instead of the love
poem my partner longs for, and I try not to wonder
what this says about me as a person. The truck behind me
edges closer, and I resist the urge to slam on my brakes.
At least once a week in my town, in spite of signs
warning them against driving beneath it, a four-wheeler
gets stuck under the overpass and has to be pried out,
and today a man in Florida was arrested for trying to roll
across the Atlantic in a giant hamster wheel.
Sometimes I wonder about evolution and whether
a species can regress. What would our ancestors think
of us in these terrible, metal machines, together
on this road every day, getting nowhere?
Something always holds us up—if it’s not
the weather, it’s an accident, and this highway
always seems to need repairs.
I turn my audiobook off and listen
to the sound of my car wheels spinning
against the broken road. A man in the Toyota
next to me clutches his steering wheel.
Staring ahead, he leans in, hard.
We do our best to adapt. I have been patient,
waiting for the lighter version of Rhonda to appear.
I want her to know I’m rooting for her.
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Joan Kwon Glass is the Korean American author of Night Swim, winner of the Diode Book Prize (Diode Editions, 2022) & two chapbooks. She serves as Poet Laureate for Milford, CT; editor-in-chief for Harbor Review; and as a writing instructor for several writing centers. Joan’s poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Poetry Daily, The Slowdown, Poetry Northwest, Cherry Tree Lit, Ninth Letter, Asian American Writer’s Workshop (The Margins), Tahoma Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, Salamander, Texas Review and elsewhere. She lives in coastal Connecticut with her family.
by Jennifer Blackledge
They were plucked out of the bleachers,
one by one, like a terrible piecemeal rapture
gone before the buzzer sounded
as if to get a jump on things.
They were all, as people say, good moms.
I didn’t know them well enough
to say goodbye
but I've known their kids
almost as long as mine.
In the hierarchy of grief
I can only send a card.
Sometimes I see them
out of the corner of my eye,
months or years after they were taken:
coming out of the Target dressing room,
in line at the grocery store. I almost say a name.
When I walk my dog during the restless hour—
the witching hour, we called it—
when everyone is hungry, unsettled,
the smell of dinner, almost ready,
wafts from every few houses.
It’s getting dark earlier,
a school night in late fall,
and I think I see one
in a window. She leans over the table,
and then turns away.
I don’t know what I owe them,
or why I was allowed to stay.
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Jennifer Blackledge lives just south of Detroit in an area the New York Times called "the vast suburban-industrial wasteland known as Downriver", a description she begrudgingly acknowledges as accurate. She works at a large automotive company and holds a B.A. from Michigan State University and an M.F.A. from Brown University. Her work has been or will be published in JAMA, I-70 Review, Scientific American, Medmic, The Lake, Verdad, Arboreal, and other places.
by Laura Read
which means most of the time no one knows
how much Marie is with me,
inside my right leg in particular,
behind the knee. After a while of standing,
it throbs and I have to shift
my weight and it is difficult for me to listen
to what someone wants from me
because I am in standing in my garden in Brooklyn
with a pair of scissors to trim the white rosebush
my apron splattered with sauce.
I called her Nanny, but her name was Marie.
I can’t say I don’t mind having her blood
running through her varicose veins
but if someone has to, I’m glad it is me.
I don’t garden, but I do make her sauce
and yesterday I accidentally bought four boxes
of lemon cake mix at Trader Joe’s
because I like to serve it in the summers
with berries but then I remembered there was only
me and my husband to serve it to now that the kids
are gone, and that’s a lot of cake.
I thought of Marie’s roses blooming
for no one and her sauce uselessly simmering.
Marie came to this country on a ship
called the Giuseppe Verdi
on December 17, 1920. She was nine.
I don’t know about you, but I like knowing this.
It adds a certain glamour to me sitting here
in these thigh-high compression hose
that I have to wear for three days
after my first round of sclerotherapy
like a cast, the doctor said, so on the third day
I stink like Sylvia’s Esther
who wore her green dirndl skirt and white blouse
that she borrowed from Betsy for three weeks straight.
The hose has grown a little
damp, and my legs are now things
I lug around, lifting them in and out of bed,
you know like all of history, like my poor Nanny
who lived before sclerotherapy,
with her husband Frank who was what they call
no good, drinking in the garage, throwing
plates, ripping the phone from the wall.
Google says sclerotherapy is a relatively
painless procedure for most people,
and I’d like to meet these most people
because I had to bite my knuckle each
of the twenty times the doctor shot
the medicine into my veins, which burns
as it travels, and still
I cried out, which then I had to apologize for,
and the doctor, whose name is Megan,
offering me a side of therapy,
said, It’s okay to cry out when I’m hurting you,
and I said, thank you, and she said,
It’s so cool, watching the medicine move through the vein.
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Laura Read is the author of But She Is Also Jane, Dresses from the Old Country, Instructions for My Mother’s Funeral, and The Chewbacca on Hollywood Boulevard Reminds Me of You. She teaches at Spokane Falls Community College and in the MFA program at Eastern Washington University.
by Tina Parker
It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!
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by Ronda Piszk Broatch
I’m tired because of the way the country is running
around with its scissors pointed the wrong way.
There are people wandering the wilderness,
geo-caching lies, eating them like potato chips.
The fence around my ventricles is coming apart.
Somebody just sent a message sliding across my screen,
and I fell for it. Instead of a pizza,
Amazon delivers a baby.
I want to write poems, but the kettle calls to be boiled,
the eggs are boiling even after the water molecules have
rejoined the atmosphere, and someone’s burning gas
from the tank of a car that hasn’t run in five years.
Never mind what I’ve lived through—sleeping
beneath a pool table, clinging to my horse’s neck
in a pasture of cows, listening to an ex-boyfriend cry
about the time he made pasta for the mafia.
I don’t drink coffee
and still my cups are stained.
There’s a box full of letters that need translating.
There’s a collection of scissors in jars around my house,
petrified pizza crust in the back of my mother’s old Dodge.
When the babies cried, we drove and drove and drove.
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Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Chaos Theory for Beginners (MoonPath Press, 2023), finalist for the Sally Albiso Prize, and Lake of Fallen Constellations (MoonPath Press). She is the recipient of an Artist Trust GAP Grant. Ronda’s journal publications include Greensboro Review, Blackbird, Sycamore Review, The Missouri Review, Palette Poetry, and NPR News / KUOW’s "All Things Considered." She is a graduate student working toward her MFA at Pacific Lutheran University’s Rainier Writing Workshop.
by Michelle Bitting
My daughter was three and refused
to wear clothes. Naked on the living
room floor, she’d demand another round
of her favorite game, Pretty Pretty Princess,
then move the plastic rainbow markers
about the board—however, wherever
she pleased. Hair and legs wild, carefree,
splayed. She hated to lose and broke what
rules she had to while we laughed, astonished
at such nerve. Years later, she became a he,
and did what he had to, moving the markers
around wherever, however he needed,
winning the crown, himself, in the end.
Some rules are prettier, broken.
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Michelle Bitting was short-listed for the 2023 CRAFT Character Sketch Challenge, the 2020 Montreal International Poetry Prize, and a finalist for the 2021 Coniston Prize and 2020 Reed Magazine Edwin Markham Prize. She is the author of five poetry collections, including Broken Kingdom (2018 Catamaran Poetry Prize) and Nightmares & Miracles (2022 Two Sylvias Press, Wilder Prize). Dummy Ventriloquist is forthcoming in 2024. Bitting is a Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing and Literature at LMU.
by Minnie Wu