Goodwife Receives a Caller         

by Devon Balwit

Why such a long face, my dear?

            Because marriage is meat I no longer stomach.

Then why stay, my dear?

            Because my shoes are hung out of reach,

            and the woods run with dogs, fierce and famished.

Why not feed them, my dear? Your body is fashioned in pieces, and not all equal.

            Because the knives have been locked away with anything bladed.

What of your teeth, my dear, the sharp scythes of the mighty masseter?

            Because I’m afraid of pain and aiding my maiming;

            I remember our courtship when my mouth was used otherwise.

Then I wish you luck, my sweet, in your choosing, in your chamber as small as a bean.

* * * * *

Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.

                                                                                            

Nubile

by Devon Balwit

I lift my arms, instructed to hold

            an imaginary ewer, but more likely

to raise my breasts for the artist’s

            delectation, his tongue just visible

between his lips, his pencils rasping

            over the rough paper. I feel

his eyes probing and palping. My skin

            prickles, nipples nubs

against the cold. He is old. I imagine

            a younger man’s hands,

a younger man’s mouth on the tendons

            behind my knees, on the hollows

of collarbone and instep. In the steam

            of the bath, I kiss

where I can reach, taking hunks of flesh

            between my teeth to the point

of skin break, then letting go, watching

            the welted bite pinking. 

Each Saturday I disrobe in the chill studio

            and stand before his easel,

watching him watching, watching my

            doppelganger as she emerges

on the page crosshatched ever more fulsome. 

            I go to the opening, the nudes

prudishly enclosed behind wooden screens. 

            One ducks beneath to see breasts

and vulva, mine among them, then back out

            for champagne. Some notice

who I am. They look and look again. 

            For the first time, I drink

too much, and sway. For years, the drawing

            languishes in my parents’ basement until sold

with their estate. I have the chance to buy it,

            but pass, spending just a moment

considering my younger self before dismissing her,

            lifting the weight of so much nothing,

flushed with a now-sated hunger, her naiveté

            painful to behold.

* * * * *

Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.

I Was Hovering Just Below the Hospital Ceiling,

Contemplating My Death

by Alexis Rhone Fancher

When I glanced down and saw my body,

the suffering, damaged girl.

My beloved, nowhere to be found

had died on impact.

Now the ER doctors say I can go either way.

So I hover on the Sistine ceiling of the

I.C.U., undecided, my dead lover's

hand reaching for me

like God stretched for Adam.

The tubes and machines that keep me

earthbound give way.

We soar past the hospital morgue,

backtrack the highway, our bodies

unbroken, the crash spliced out.

My mother keens beside my hospital bed,

her fingers tangled in my blood-soaked hair,

picking at pieces of windshield.

Holding tight.

Years later I re-trace the road

between death and Santa Barbara,

how he cradled my head in his lap as he drove.

How he didn't want to go with me.

How I always got what I wanted.

All my life, such a greedy girl.

- - - - -

When I was twenty, a highway collision killed my fiancé and my unborn child. I survived only because I was asleep, my head on my fiancé's lap, when the driver of the other vehicle veered into our lane and crashed into us at 70mph. I have tried for years to write about the immediate aftermath. This poem is the first time I got it right.

* * * * *

"I Was Hovering Just Below the Hospital Ceiling, Contemplating My Death" was first published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, http://www.glass-poetry.com/journal/2017/april/fancher-hovering.html

Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and other heart stab poems, (2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), and Enter Here (June, 2017). She is published in Best American Poetry, 2016, Rattle, Slipstream, Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles, Hobart, Cleaver, and elsewhere. Her photos are published worldwide, including a spread in River Styx, and the covers of Witness, Heyday, and The Chiron Review. Since 2013 Alexis has been nominated for 11 Pushcart Prizes and 4 Best of the Net awards. She is Poetry Editor of Cultural Weekly, where she also publishes a monthly photo essay,"The Poet's Eye," about her on-going love affair with Los Angeles.

Atop the Terebinth Tree

by Helen Bar-Lev

The blackbird sat

atop the terebinth tree

a full afternoon moon

as backdrop

its song as sweet

as the cherries

on the tree beneath it

The next day its body lay

at the foot of the terebinth

perfectly black

the cats

hadn’t even touched it

Lucky bird

a song its last breath

unaware, unafraid

of death

* * * * *

© 5.2017 Helen Bar-Lev (both text and photo)

Helen Bar-Lev was born in New York in 1942. www.helenbarlev.com  She holds a B.A. in Anthropology, has lived in Israel for 46 years and has had over 90 exhibitions of her landscape paintings, 34 of which were one-woman shows. Her poems and artwork have appeared in numerous online and print anthologies. Six poetry collections, all illustrated by Helen. She is the Amy Kitchener senior poet laureate. Helen was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2013 and is the recipient of the Homer European Medal for Poetry and Art. Helen is Assistant to the President of Voices Israel. She lives in Metulla, Israel.

The Moon of the Mountains

by Helen Bar-Lev

The moon of the mountains

is larger, brighter, swallowing the heavens,

closer too are the jackals

and nights are cool, even in summer

The sun seems closer also

and some days the distant ranges

are so defined and crisp

it is as though perspective

has been obliterated

and peaks not seen before

are sudden in their beauty

So that there is a feeling

of floating above it,

up up to the place where

the moon looks down

and directs its beams

to brighten the mountains

Then up further through the milky way

to disappear into it

to become one with it

a beacon for the traveler

who might prefer to observe the world

from this unusual perch

before returning to continue

the journey on planet earth

* * * * *

© 9.2009 Helen Bar-Lev

Helen Bar-Lev was born in New York in 1942. www.helenbarlev.com  She holds a B.A. in Anthropology, has lived in Israel for 46 years and has had over 90 exhibitions of her landscape paintings, 34 of which were one-woman shows. Her poems and artwork have appeared in numerous online and print anthologies. Six poetry collections, all illustrated by Helen. She is the Amy Kitchener senior poet laureate. Helen was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2013 and is the recipient of the Homer European Medal for Poetry and Art. Helen is Assistant to the President of Voices Israel. She lives in Metulla, Israel.

DEAR YEOBO,*

by Tanya Ko Hong

When you say ramen

then I am ramen.

When you say tea

I am tea.

When you take off your clothes

then I take off my clothes.

If I could leave my senses

I would be no trouble.

You don’t give food

to the fish you’ve caught.

You no longer need to hold me—

please drink your tea.

* * * * *

*Yeobo: “darling” or “honey,” a Korean term of endearment

“Dear Yeobo” was first  published first in Rattle.

Korean American poet, Tanya Ko Hong, has been published in Rattle, Beloit Poetry Journal, Two Hawks Quarterly, Portside, Cultural Weekly, and elsewhere. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles, and is the author of four books of poetry, most recently, Mother to Myself, A collection of poems in Korean (Prunsasang Press, 2015). Fluent in Korean and English, Tanya is an ongoing advocate of bilingual poetry, promoting the work of immigrant poets. She lives in Palos Verdes, California with her husband and three children. Find out more at www.tanyakohong.com

When Paris Was a Woman

by Adrena Zawinski

Let nothing else get in but that clear vision you are alone alone with.

––Gertrude Stein

When Paris was a woman, she lounged long and lazy

            at Café Les Deux Magots on Saint-Germaine des Prés,

her Chinese silk cloak draped across her shoulders,

            head wrapped in a neat and fashionable cloche, sporting

a velveteen top hat and spats, if the occasion so moved her,

            while she tipped a glass of vin ordinaire to passers by,

a songbird’s oh-so-blue tune plying the backdrop,

            with je ne regrette rien, silken as Piaf’s black slip

of a dress under the night’s streetlight where love

            could sometimes be exchanged for a few francs.

When Paris was a woman, Mata Hari rode nearly naked

            on a circus horse to a reading at a garden salon,

Renée Vivien’s images lilting poems in Sapphic revival,

            blinded by constellations of amazones and sirenes.

Into the city of dark nights, under the Montmartre sky,

            where even Josephine would stroll, tiger on a short leash, 

while a local coquette would bite down hard on the lip of a man

            who calculated the price of an aperitif as a kiss.

When Paris was a woman, she mused over Radclyffe’s

banned book, Gertrude’s opaque scrawl recited again and again:

            Rose is a

            Rose is a

            Rose is a

            Rose

            She is my rose.

La femme de lettres joined with Alice at Cimetière du Père Lachaise, some say seen strolling there still with Romaine

and Natalie, Germaine and Colette, Flanner, Monnier,

a whole coterie

of women wanting Paris

to be a woman

again.

* * * * *

"When Paris Was a Woman" was first published in Sinister Wisdom 100 (Dover, FL).

More about Andrena Zawinski at https://andrenazawinski.wordpress.com.

Never the Right Recipe        

                                                                       

by Andrena Zawinski

The last time I saw her she had just stopped

wearing black, so very many years after the death

of her young husband. Stirring spaghetti sauce,

bubbling up and splashing onto her flowered mumu,

she would sing childhood Sicilian songs, fingering

the red ribbon pinned to her bra strap, bright gold

cornicello dangling from her neck––double protection

from malocchio.  

Those days she would say you and I were young

and dumb with big ideas, tipsy on Dago Red

from backyard Concords she let us taste, sparking spats 

around her Sunday kitchen table on our tarty ways,

trying to look older than our seventeen years

in false eyelashes and teased-up bleached-out hair,

delivering our threats to run off to New York City

in short skirts on platform heels looking for more

than what we had, she making behind her back

a mano cornuto.

Today I thought I found the right recipe

for her falagones, sliced the potatoes and onions

paper-thin, stuffed them inside folded dough,

but too sparse, too dry, missing something.

And now you have told me she can no longer speak,

can barely navigate from chair to bed, shouldering

the curse of having her wits mixed up by the Parkinsons

no ribbon, gold, or hand sign can ward off.

If I could I would tell her about how I have nearly

perfected her bolognese with sausage and beef,

how close it is in color and taste, but never as good as hers.

I would tell her that despite the many passing years,

we are still young and dumb––that even as we now

swirl, sniff, sip our Chianti, nibble our garlic-lemon

bruschetta in small plate fusion tapas bars,

we are still picky eaters struggling to be satisfied

with what we have.

* * * * *

"Never the Right Recipe" was first published Paterson Literary Review #45 (Paterson, NJ).

More about Andrena Zawinski at https://andrenazawinski.wordpress.com.

Yoga Teacher

by Florence Weinberger

She bends me.

She asks pain?

I say yes.

She knows the soft

willingness of bone,

my rod and my staff,

my stubborn obelisk.

She shifts me.

Considers my position.

She asks pain?

I say no.  She explains

as if anatomy is the only path.

Only a path.

She asks pain?

I say yes and no

for what was and what isn’t,

and still is,

and what will replace it.

* * * * *

"Yoga Teacher" was first published in Poetry Kanto.

rise

by E Mani Lee

wide awake i cannot see

the voice said,

you are not brave are you

no answer in the dark

the night stares in

you are not brave are you

a stirring. a breath. delicate fingers reach out

and i rise

the words break the clouds like sun

the light is blinding

wide awake i cannot see

but i am

i am fearless

Dirty Underpants

by Barbara Walker

Guys young and not so young,
what makes you think we want to see your bum?

I ask you, please,

are you comfortable with pants around your knees?

I am appalled and look askance,

when you show your dirty underpants.

I'm sick of seeing your bum!

When will this fashion craze be done?

Although, it is so much fun,

to watch you hold your pants, as you try to run.

If you saw yourself from behind, walking,

you'd change your pants without balking

You'd see yourself holding your pants to your waist, so tight,

with knees bent outward to keep your jewels from sight.

To others, you look so asinine,

while you think you look, oh, so fine.

Please, get some pants that truly fit

and you'll be able to run and sit

and I can enjoy the sun,

instead of seeing your glaring bum.

* * * * *

Barbara Walker has had several short stories published in anthologies and her poems published in various magazines. She loves to watch the beautiful sunsets from her comfy chair on her patio of her new hometown by a lake in Arizona.

A Candle Burning

by Barbara Walker

Life,

like a candle, burning,

its flame nearly extinguished

by the harsh blowing winds of life,

but, then,

just often enough

to keep the candle hopeful,

the wind becomes a gentle breeze

and the flame begins to dance.

* * * * *

Barbara Walker has had several short stories published in anthologies and her poems published in various magazines. She loves to watch the beautiful sunsets from her comfy chair on her patio of her new hometown by a lake in Arizona.

The Fortune Teller offers answers on Saturday night

by Grace Marie Grafton

Believe me, they'd be different if it were

Sunday dinner or Wednesday choir practice

but I see you have your black pumps on I suppose

there's a garter of some hula-hula color up your

leg. You want to know about Prince Charming or

at least a cute-enough guy who can dance the salsa

or take you for a drive in his convertible car with

the top down and some contemporary version of

Frankie or McCartney singing the song.

You're riding the wrong carousel, Honey,

Saturday night's a poker game that's gone

bust for anyone who wants a part in the serious

show, at least for a modern woman. Take my

word for it (and that's what you're paying me for)

you'll do better building bridges or being a scholar

of medieval medical practices. At least there's

undeniable material there for a block buster best

seller and you're always going to need a back-up

income if you want to contribute to the gene pool.

You deserve to choose to be a mother.

* * * * *

Grace Marie Grafton is the author of six collections of poems, most recently 'Jester,' published by Hip Pocket Press. She has taught thousands of children to write poetry through her work with CA Poets in the Schools.

Today a huge thank you to all of you who have submitted and shared your words, and also to those of you who will do so in the future.

Yesterday's poem completed another cycle of 91 postings of Writing In A Woman's Voice, bringing the total to 273. Tomorrow begins a new cycle. I am so pleased with and inspired by all the gorgeous voices flowing this way. We need each other's voices and each other's courage in these troubled times. And are we ever in trouble. Politically. Personally. How can one gather enough strength out of despondent hearts that are getting no rest from news of violence, so that one feels almost guilty at stopping to admire the flowers? Here we help each other along with saying what needs to be said, in beauty, in anger, in sadness, even in indifference. And then we simply move forward into our precious days.

A small practical observation. The blog is open to prose as well as poetry. The preponderance of submissions and posts has been poetry. I would very much like to look at some prose submissions in the future.

I am sending you love, and wishes for much needed courage, and wishes for happy days. 

YAHRZEIT

by Lesléa Newman

Golden autumn leaves

drift lazily through the air

onto Mother’s grave

White winter snowflakes

fall all over themselves to

blanket Mother’s grave

Gentle spring raindrops

are sent down from the heavens

to wash Mother’s grave

Warm summer breezes

chase pale yellow butterflies

around Mother’s grave

Today marks a year

endless tears soak one small stone

placed on Mother’s grave

* * * * *

 “Yahrzeit” copyright ©2015 Lesléa Newman, from I Carry My Mother (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Reprinted by permission of the author. Here is a book trailer for I Carry My Mother:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yf4ubYHObAM

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s Mother, Signs of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. Her most recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book.

HOW TO WATCH YOUR FATHER WATCH YOUR MOTHER DIE

by Lesléa Newman

Sit beside him on a folding chair beside your mother’s bed.

Place a box of tissues between you.

Watch him take your mother’s hand in both his own

and stroke it like a small wounded animal.

Do not speak.
Do not turn on the TV.

Do not shatter the silence around you.

Let time pass.

Listen to your father sigh.

Listen to your father sob.

Hand your father a tissue whenever necessary.

Ask him if he wants food.
Ask him if wants water.

Ask him if he wants to take a walk.

Do not press him when he says no to everything.

Remember the one thing he wants is impossible to give him.

Let more time pass.

When your father gets up to go to the bathroom and says,

“Hold Mom’s hand,” hold your mother’s hand.

When he returns, give your mother’s hand back to your father.

It belongs to him.

Do not tell your father what the hospice nurse told you:

you need to let go so she can let go.

When the sun sets, gather the darkened room

around your shoulders like a cloak.

See your father’s undying love

take your mother’s breath away.

* * * * *

“How To Watch Your Father Watch Your Mother Die” copyright ©2015 Lesléa Newman, from I Carry My Mother (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Reprinted by permission of the author. Here is a book trailer for I Carry My Mother:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yf4ubYHObAM

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s Mother, Signs of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. Her most recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book.