By Wren Tuatha

distance gives
the illusion
of a meditative
stillness

the pond
itself
knows better

a middle child
moves
to feel the mud
grow tacky
then gelatinous
at the edge

under a breakable
membrane
is a city of beings
that fly and float
dip and drift

and nibble

the child
launches
her mind
below
to follow a bluegill
to murky avenues

nothing that breathes the pond
can survive the plenum
of air and dust
beyond
the membrane

all above below
and between
depend on the pond
being a pond

the child remembers
a fairy tale
considers
growing gills

chills
at the thought
of choosing

By Lora Obrohta

Only a certain kind of
Man builds his house
To face the sunrise.
My father is one.
Here we are
At 5AM,
Watching dew burn
Off beef cattle pasture.

He wants to tell me again
How his mother,
Who hobbled about
On misshapen feet
Yet smiled while
Clawing forward
With arthritic, paralyzed hands
Hoping to hook
And hold on
With love,
She loaned the last 20 dollars
Of 500 he needed,
To buy his first “patch
Of ground.”

Here we are:
He swings, most days,
Strokes keep him
From the fields.
Mother keeps him from a tractor
By hiding keys
He’ll never find,
Unlike the chewing tobacco,
She disapproves
And keeps him
Outside, spitting
Into her blue ‘Pom Pom’

Hydrangeas; the ones
So many come to harvest
For weddings, anniversaries,
The sort of events,
For which he has never had time.

He wants to tell me, again
How his Mother
(Yes, I know her —
My Grandmother)
She loaned the last 20 dollars
Of 500 he needed,
To buy his first “patc
Of ground.”

I weed between the zinnias
Out front,
My mother’s showpiece and
Dressing up,
While the white porch swing
Repeats its song
Of chained whispers.
Newly released (maybe)
By vaccines,
Visiting from the city,
Listening,
As he borrows and buys
The first piece
Of empire,
Again,
WHACK,
Again.

Still,
I’ve never asked —
What did you do
To thank
Your Mother?

By Lora Obrohta

The physician’s assistant apologizes,
As she presses and pats
The left side I cannot see, anymore,
Where I can only feel
Pain and stabs and pulls;
But I want to live.

So I say,
Breast Cancer is like Mardi Gras
I’ve flashed my chest so many times . . .
Don’t apologize,
Your work is going to save me
From ugly surprises.

Well, maybe.
We have no detector
For cancer.
But if that’s a lie, let’s keep it
Between us.

Only someone unhappy
To be here
Could think what’s left
Is ugly; scarred,
Worthless for babies,
Sex, or beads.

Well, maybe, for someone
Not trapped in
This meat ship.
But if that’s a lie,
Let’s keep it
Between us.

I’m no more the
Breast meat
That’s gone,
Than I am my hair
Or ass
Or mind.
It takes a lot of parts to be this much.

Well, yes.
And maybe,
If you’d like to sell
Something
To only one part,
Let’s keep that between us.

By Mary Kaczowka

Thirty–year–old me
wanted my son
to manifest as a doctor
a lawyer, someone focused
accomplished
atmospherical even.

Forty–year–old me
merely wanted a child
graduated
from high school
able to care for himself
able to feed himself
to drive a car
legally
Pay his bills
not overdraw his account
and stay employed
longer than his usual
four days at a time.

Now, as my child
enters his own thirties
I’d settle for the fact
that he’s a good person
Someone who puts a roof
over his own child’s head
without me
standing and pointing
do this or that
Without me having
to will him to stand
on his own two feet.

Here–for–where–art–thou:
I have totally willed away
any thoughts of him filling
his mother’s shoes.