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When in Rome
Autumn M. Stephens
I have never felt so foreign
among my own—
except, perhaps, at the kitchen table
in Bristol, PA:
my mother bellyaching
about her part-time job
or celebrating another month's pay from Unemployment,
while I shake-off my 10-hour day, the slaving
to pay for that trip to the motherland.
My father said,
"Don't be startled if a stranger grabs your ass;
it's different there."
Different, as in:
the teenage girl behind me on the bus
later finding cum on her skirt—
a souvenir from the native beside her.
Or me,
amidst cat calls and propositions
walking in circles around the Stazione Termini, trying
not to let them see me crying.
This is what being alone in a foreign country shows you:
In the mirror, you look
nothing like you always have—
the color of your eyes is not as dark as you once imagined,
your hair is thinner and much
straighter, and your hips don't quite stretch the way you thought they did
when you considered yourself
one of this kind.
Therapy
for Mom-Mom
Autumn M. Stephens
I.
You have breast cancer.
That is no way to begin this
here.
You have chemo-
therapy a few times a week, when
you can make it. You won't
drive in nasty weather.
II.
Your husband threatened to kill you
the first time you found a lump.
He aimed the shotgun at your chest
and said he couldn't love you
if you were ugly.
Tell me again:
it was January,
you wore a flimsy shift
and hair twisted into pincurls.
He came home late
and your oldest daughter jumped
between you
to keep him from shooting.
He said he was sorry
you wouldn't be a whole woman
anymore.
III.
You cried at his funeral.
He was sober for 8 years,
not even out of his fifties.
It didn't matter
that you were remarried.
You sat near the front
wearing black
and your thin yellow hair
like a halo
of forgiveness.
IV.
The man who molested me
was in prison for five years
when he was beaten to death
by another inmate.
It was a school day.
I missed the bus,
listening to my mother, excited,
on the phone: Are you sure?
I can hardly believe it. We high-fived
in the tight doorway,
before I even dropped my bookbag.
I jumped
and triumphantly
the hollow floor echoed.
V.
Am I the devil?
wearing this dark hair,
reveling
in the vibrance of reds?
In therapy, they say
it's about acceptance.
It's about making the best
of the rest of your life.
Is it evil to have never been sorry?
No one ever says a word
about forgiveness.
Untitled
Missy Grotz
Present
At the inception
And
Birth
Of the very idea
A spanking new concept
of what we do,
who we are…
the essence
of
where
we
are
going.
South Wind
Eileen D'Angelo
It's 1:00 a.m. and nothing feels right:
Too tall, my feet hang off the end of this bed,
the stars outside hang just below the tree line.
And this small room is not big enough for me
and this country brown spider, intent on his web.
It's 1:00 a.m. and I want to pick up the phone,
hear your voice, tell you how cold the sheets are
here in the mountains, where four months
of rainless skies deluged into one day
of drizzle and downpours. The other night,
under cover of overcast sky,
I slipped into the still pool at midnight,
into the dark cold waters, my nipples
hard as buttons, my eyes skyward
as smoky clouds moved across the moon.
Tomorrow, I will walk around the lake,
rain or no rain. I will take what I can
for the journey home: this south wind blowing
off the lake, the damp pines turning in sunlight.
Fallen apples circled by bees.
Creating the Spell
Eileen D'Angelo
Growing up, I learned that Catholics had remedies of all kinds,
saints to call upon in times of need, for everything from patience,
to finding your reading glasses.
What others might call superstitions, my mother called faith,
as she placed icons of the virgin mother and holy waters holders
all over our house, and gave us relics with the piece of the one true cross,
as she buried statues of St. Joseph upside down in our front yard,
- a bit of Catholic magic she was told would make our house sell.
Every summer, when we took to the road, we prayed to St. Christopher
as our tires rumbled on rough roads in bad weather.
We knew he would protect us, send angels to travel with us.
We called on St. Anthony, Patron Saint of items lost:
to find whole childhoods spirited away overnight,
and with enough novenas and devotion,
with enough rosaries blessed by our Holy Father in Rome,
missing keys miraculously appeared...
and our house miraculously sold....
But the sharp edges of our youth glowed like streetlights
on shattered bottles and bits of scrap metal
glinting in the back alley
My sister and I were hardy weeds
pushing through the uneven city pavement.
We knew when all else failed, it was
St. Jude of the Hopeless Cases who could be counted on,
as we gathered flowers for our shrine...
as we lit one devotional candle after another,
only to walk home and find broken lives.
We wondered which prayers
would please our patron saint,
what sacrifice on the altar of our young souls
would be the charm,
the perfect spell.
Slowing Dying
Camelia Nocella
The golden leaf spilled into your face
Sullen with pain the forest thickens
You lost in nature's repentant song
Song for a season slowly dying.
The autumn chants harvest suicide
As the equinox wind rushes rage
You tear at the life of your design
Bloody-red leaves drip from the branches.
We managed to postpone the dread frost
We re-taped pieces of the puzzles
The tree intact, its roots unsevered
Squirrely waiting for Spring re-birthing.
Stuck in the Mud
Camelia Nocella
In the green of the season spring
In the valley
In the Valley Green
Where ducklings squawked of our arrival,
Quacking at our youthfulness
Quacking at our foolishness
Tramping through the mud
Undaunted by the earthy obstacle
Slowly sinking into Adulthood.
When I glance at your reflection
In Wissahiccon Creek,
The memory,
A day of wonder, together,
I wish Time would get stuck
In that life-stream moment
Where souls rejuvenate
And we are innocent
Young again.
Small feet
Playing in the mud
Firmly planted
Webbed in love-laughter
As the swans go cackling by.
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