“You have my
complete devotion,”
so the letter ends,
but I mail it
to the pond instead.
The window opens
to an eastern haven:
blackbirds, catbirds,
Carolina Wrens.
With seasons of
attention,
I learned the
Cardinal’s song.
Even if the species
went extinct,
flew away,
or settled
somewhere far,
even if I hadn’t heard
their call in years,
I would run
at once
to hear the voice
I knew by heart.
– Grace Sullivan
Author’s Note: We open in the middle of a letter to someone. The kind of person who, even when life changes, has a hold on your heart that sustains over time and distance. The “Cardinal” could be a stand-in for this person that the speaker remains loyal to in spite of discouragement.…
...continue reading
The email draft sits unsent.
Not because I don’t know the words,
but because I do.
My phone buzzes,
and I let it.
The silence is easier
than explaining myself
to another rectangle of light.
I’ve learned how to smile
in the doorway,
to shrug when someone asks,
How’s it going?
They don’t really want to know.…
...continue reading
The wars never end,
nor does the bloodshed,
and it makes men rich.
The world has gone crazy.
The children continue to starve,
their cries fill the air,
Elsewhere food is wasted.
The world has gone crazy.
The water, air, and food are poisoned.
The oceans and its life are dying.
Mankind can’t see the forest for the trees,
that are falling to the axe of its own greed.
The world has gone crazy.…
...continue reading
They thought they buried her
beneath silence,
beneath shame,
beneath the twisted shadows
of what was never her fault.
A girl, broken open
before she knew what “no” could mean.
Her innocence wasn’t lost
it was stolen, stripped
by hands that never knew the weight of consequence.
But still,
she breathed.
Each day she woke
with trembling limbs and fractured dreams,
but she woke.…
...continue reading
I lie in the belly of my bed
like a flame dying in a pool of wax—
ponder if Mother Earth will be swallowed
by the ocean as she boils in a belly
of poison. Outside my window I hear
her crying raindrops, and I am crying too.
Her heavy clouds spew a flood of water,
fill the ground, rage rivers, melt soil,
and crumble rocks. Even as she suffers,
she is still more powerful than us.
She knows humanity will die before her.
Her thunder blasts a distant horn—tells me
I know how to strike a match—begs me to ignite
this sunken Earth mother’s flame and make her new.
– Kathi Crawford
Author’s Note: “Put a Match to It” ignites the opening of a collection I am working on, setting the tone with its focus on climate change and the resilience of Mother Earth.…
...continue reading
There is the mythology of birthmarks that they
Represent your past lives’ ends, how you met
Your maker at the edge of the field.
What do mine say about me? My stomach
Dyed brown from a stab wound in feudal Spain,
A domestic dispute over the manzanilla olive.
Or what of the matching café au lait splotches
On both my upper knees? Groveling on scorched
Stone steps before any Athenian god who listened.
How about the mark on my neck, just above
The clavicle? Some warrior in southern Asia’s
Attempt to open my airways one last time.…
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weapons aren’t just blades, knives and swords
they’re eyes that throw glances
sharp enough to cut through your ego
make you think of the ruins you’ve created
weapons are words we don’t swallow
that we allow to come up
through the broken and cracked pipes
that might burst with emotion
weapons are moving towards
uninhabitable lands filled with toxins
designed to kill the human spirit…
...continue reading