My Life as a Gambler
By Essay Issue 115
I had wagered more than I could afford to lose on the probability that God was a friend to the orphan and a protector of the vulnerable.
Read MoreMy Mother, on Horseback, in a Blizzard
By Poetry Issue 112
She has lived / six years on planet earth, and like other / children of the storm has been advised, The horse will bring you home.
Read MoreSome Flowers for My Mother
By Poetry Issue 112
never mind
the fickleness of the light
here, the damp that would
a more flimsily
rooted loveliness
drown.
Aparture
By Essay Issue 111
In ballet class they were always chiding us to not allow the difficulty of the act to be expressed in the hands… We girls were being taught the art of concealing art, ars est celare artem, the method wherein obfuscation becomes a weft to gird the warp of technique.
Read MoreMoth Light
By Fiction Issue 109
But it unfolded itself, and, like a long-held secret, its wings swelled wide enough to span her palm. Then she saw the color it had been keeping close: hind wings emblazoned with what shone like blue eyes, rimmed with gold and mounted on a concentric field of black.
Read MoreMotherhood: A Visual Contract
By Essay Issue 102
Leni Dothan examines and critiques how motherhood has been presented in western art history.
Read MoreThe Stand-In
By Short Story Issue 95
1 C AROLINE WAS PADDING, distracted and shoeless, through the weekday stillness of the empty church when she came upon Desmond’s wife standing on the other side of the back entrance. Framed by the double glass doors, Kim looked uncharacteristically small in an out-of-season winter jacket. Caroline offered up pastoral smile no. 6: Ironic Appreciation…
Read MoreMary, Mother
By Poetry Issue 92
It is a fact that no one worries in the Bible. —Adam Phillips i. She worried. & she knew. Good enough makes a faint halo. Still she was good enough. She let the infant dream his unbroken body at her nipple. She suckled him & waited as lightning struck. Often. His eyes clouded— ultramarine, gray…
Read MoreRoman Charity
By Essay Issue 90
THE LAST TIME YOU SAW your mother alive, she helped you heal from your C-section. It wasn’t what you planned, with your careful study of the benefits of natural childbirth, your doula, your pelvic carriage the midwife called beautiful. Your own mother’s births had been natural, her milk abundant. She always said that being a mother…
Read MoreScale
By Poetry Issue 89
______I am soft sift ______In an hourglass _____________ —Hopkins Against the darkening winterplum sky, a lone contrail whitens—loose thread, untufted cotton. A perfect inverse of me: ____________________________Lenten moon of my belly taut, halved by a slurred gray line. Linea nigra, the doctor says, my belly button’s new ashen tail a ghostly likeness of the cut…
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