The Bookends Review

At the funeral home, sad figures murmur
patting one another on the back, gently
the way we soothe children
gripping each other’s hands, reluctant to let go

then moving on to the next
as if underwater
in no hurry to say good-bye
to our casketed friend

his cooled hands folded, a crucifix on his chest
a still life framed in black and white,
a boxed gift nested in tissue paper.
And why stop there?… ...continue reading

There was a time when LGBTQ narratives and theoretical lenses had no place in the world of literature and academia. It wasn’t until the late 70’s and early 80’s when queer theorists began to wrestle firsthand with the social forces that silenced them to begin with. From then on, the queer voice extend into contemporary literary fields and provided the world a challenge to the set social norms. Contemporary literature of the 2000’s has greatly dealt with postmodernist themes and actions of deconstructing the modernist systems of their predecessors. Perhaps one of the biggest themes of postmodern contemporary literature is the explication and progression of the domineering force that is patriarchy and toxic hypermasculinity. But how exactly are these writer’s utilizing postmodernist literature to reveal the oppression of this topic?… ...continue reading

A glacier, then this.
A mangled mind is nothing
compared to the ice-graze on this rock.
All the people who ever stood on it,
even the ones who threw themselves off,
all the scars that they humped to get on top
are nothing compared to ice-melt.

Some of us worry about ice melting,
about what it means. Here, they say
if the ice didn’t melt, there’d still be something
to throw ourselves off, something to marvel at.
‘At least that’s something,’ they say, not knowing
how else to respond to a mind so mangled
it would take a falling glacier
to finally scrape it clean.

– Emma Croker… ...continue reading

The first one was a Swiss tourist in the back of a nightclub. I am sure I knew his name at one point but I certainly don’t know it now. I had been talking to Italian men all night, warily, because I am frightened of Italian men. The Swiss man, in fact, had taken my arm and gently pulled me away from the eager grasp of one such Antonio from Rome and offered to translate the man’s loose Italian. I am sure I shook my head in evasion of this offer, but he did it anyway: “He said you shouldn’t be talking to him. You should be dancing with me.” I’ll admit it; I was charmed. Mostly I just wanted to feel like someone’s for the night, so I chose to feel like his.… ...continue reading

A life-long lover of reading and writing, Mary Jo has been a Story Circle Network member for nearly twenty years, serving as an editor, a book reviewer, and a women’s writing circle facilitator. Most recently, she has been a three-time Program Chair for the National Conference, Stories from the Heart, a board member, and facilitates workshops and a women’s life-writing circle. Her stories have appeared in anthologies, and “I Can’t Breathe” is in Inside and Out: Women’s Truths, Women’s Stories. Mary Jo’s degree is in Secondary English Education/Educational Psychology; her work appears in varied blogs and periodicals, on her blog, Facebook, and Twitter.

When and how did you become interested in women’s writing?

In some visceral sense, I always knew I’d write a book one day.… ...continue reading

On the eve, age comes crashing
like a furious wave against
the shoreline of my thoughts –
the receding hairline of indolence,
the growing gut of greed, half-spent,
half-endured, as catcalls rise
from the gallery, and I am speared
upon a crescendo of longing.

We bid welcome to this new generation of thought.
The unborn children are squealing at the font
of our loins, that fear infects
like a cancer, noting
the ages I’ve reached
and bodies I’ve spurned
without ever creating something greater
than myself.

Wisdom refuses to descend; the old
goat beard growing, but shaking no pearls
from its wiry form. The curved blacks
of my inheritance not permitting
rescue or relief from the
misanthropic tendencies
that echo still like rung bells from my core.… ...continue reading

The world is around again,
knocking on the door.
I pull on the chain and
open in it.
I am trying.
She is beautiful and
I let her in.
She says that starting
again is hard.
I agree over wine.
I don’t drink wine,
I am trying.
I work my way out of
the cocoon. She says
that it would be a good
rule not to talk about
our exes. I tell her that
it sounds good to me.
We kiss, letting the movie
play in the background.
I move forward, and
she pulls back.
She says that starting
over is hard.
Through the wine I agree. 

– Pigpen Madigan… ...continue reading