In honor of today's full moon, the ninth Moon Prize* goes to Anne Peterson's powerful poem of abuse and unresolved loss, "No More Talking"—backdating to the full moon of May 10, 2017.

No More Talking

by Anne Peterson

“Divorce” the letter read; 

“violence,” it went on.

A long-distance call made: 

“I can’t talk now! 

He’s harassing me again.”

Hours later a phone rings, 

and two sisters talk.

One tells of a hurting heart 

and ten years of pain;

the other sobs in silence.

“Calling the police was easy,

I wish I would have done it sooner.”

Days later, another caller, 

“She’s gone.

No one knows where. 

She never showed up at work. 

Her husband says she just walked out.”

Disbelief fills a sister's heart,

Too many questions invade her mind:

Why would she leave her kids?

Why didn't she take her car?

Why not wait for the money

that would be hers the next day?

Some questions in life get answered, 

and some take time. 

It has been thirty-five years 

since two sisters talked,

and one still hurts.

* * * * *

Anne Peterson is a poet, speaker, and published author of 14 books. She has written Broken: a story of Abuse and Survival, several children's books and some poetry books. You can see Anne's books here at her author page. To find out more about Anne, visit her website at www.annepeterson.com or you can visit her Facebook author page.

* The Moon Prize ($91) is awarded once a month on the full moon for a story or poem posted in Writing In A Woman's Voice during the moon cycle period preceding a full moon. I don't really want this to be competition. I simply want to share your voices. And then I want to pick one voice during a moon cycle for the prize. I fund this with 10% of my personal modest income. I wish I could pay for each and every poem or story, but I am not that rich. (Yet.) For a little while only there will be two awards each month, on the day of the full moon and the day after, until I catch up with past postings.

Why 91? 91 is a mystical number for me. It is 7 times 13. 13 is my favorite number. (7 isn't half bad either.) There are 13 moons in a year. I call 13 my feminist number, reasoning that anything that was declared unlucky in a patriarchal world has to be mystically excellent. Then there are 4 times 91 days in a year (plus one day, or two days in leap years), so approximately 91 days each season. In some Mayan temples there are or were 91 steps on each of four sides. Anyway, that's where the number 91 comes from, not to mention that it's in the approximate neighborhood of 100. 

The Parking Lot – April 2014

by Debra Kiva

I remember that Tuesday

in April.

I watched as the agitation of

the unfamiliar

place

began to swallow you.

You fidgeted, eyes darted about

saying over and over

"I want to go home."

The four of us sitting on slate blue

metal chairs, awaiting

lunch at the outdoor cafe

by the sea

on the other side

of the world.

I took you from the table.

It was only day two of our visit.

You didn't know who I was but

you were sweet.

It was as if the harshness that

possessed you for

all those years

had disappeared

and you enjoyed the

tenderness of my

attention.

I said, I'd take you back to the car.

As we walked I told you that

“Sometimes, I want to

go home too.”

You asked if I knew your kids. 

I said, yes because I am one

of them.

You questioned, do you know the other

two?

I answered, I did, I knew them well, my whole life

because I am your

youngest.

You said, there is one I have not

seen in a long time. And your face

showed immeasurable sorrow.

I said I miss him too.

And that's when

you fell

into my arms

that afternoon

in the hot Australian sun.

It had been over a year

since he passed -

your beautiful son from

a disease similar to the

one that will soon

claim you.

That day, I held your

tiny, frail body up

and for the first time

since his death

you cried.

* * * * *

Debra Kiva has been writing poetry as means to process challenging situations for over 25 years. She is co-director of Gold Country Threshold Choir which provides comfort and compassion through song to those on the threshold of life. She currently lives in the Sierra Foothills with her husband and black lab. 

A NOTEWORTHY LIFE AND DEATH

by Judith Offer

She spent her life

Looking

For the music in it,

Not realizing

She should have been

Listening instead.

At least you tried

Said God

As she floated into the robe.

He hummed a few bars.

That’s it she said.

That’s it!  That’s it!

* * * * *

Judith Offer has had two daughters, five books of poetry and dozens of plays. (Eighteen of the latter, including six musicals, have been produced.)  She has read her poetry at scores of poetry venues, but is particularly delighted to have been included in the Library of Congress series and on “All Things Considered,” on NPR.  Her writing reflects her childhood in a large Catholic family—with some Jewish roots—her experience as teacher, community organizer, musician, historian, gardener, and all-purpose volunteer, and her special fascination with her roles of wife and mother.  Her most recent book of poetry, called DOUBLE CROSSING, is poems about Oakland, California, where she lives with her husband, Stuart.

PROFESSOR ANITA HILL, JUDGE CLARENCE THOMAS,

THE SENATORS, AND US

by Judith Offer

The Professor said that the Judge said that his donger

Was longer than Silver’s. Horrified, mortified,

We tried to get our televisions and radios

To go away, stop following us around all day.

But they stayed tuned without remorse,

So in due course, we had to witness the man’s defense:

“It makes no sense to listen to her,” he said.

“I didn’t. Instead, think of her sex. Maybe she’s

A wanabee Judge’s girl, mad for love of me, an African-

American who is well-affirmed. You whites, pinks, and greys

Should stay away from the darker questions;

That’s my suggestion. Your skin isn’t fit to judge.”

He wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t his style. (Or hers.)

Senators (left and right) sweated, squirmed,

And yearned to be away from the media’s gaze,

Eighteen hour days, ambitious women, nasty reporters

And assorted spinning orators. Finally, they voted to vote.

Their ignorance noted, they decided to promise

Mr. Thomas a lifetime of Justice. Professor Anita,

Having retreated a thoroughly-Hilled Hill,

Still measures law at the head of her class.

Last and least, We the People of the Land of the Free

Wait to see what justice will fit

In a court where sits a man whose donger

(Pinocchio-like) gets longer and longer and longer.

* * * * *

"Professor Anita Hill, Judge Clarence Thomas, The Senators, and Us" is from the collection Judith Offer's collection THERE IS THERE IS THERE.

Judith Offer has had two daughters, five books of poetry and dozens of plays. (Eighteen of the latter, including six musicals, have been produced.)  She has read her poetry at scores of poetry venues, but is particularly delighted to have been included in the Library of Congress series and on “All Things Considered,” on NPR.  Her writing reflects her childhood in a large Catholic family—with some Jewish roots—her experience as teacher, community organizer, musician, historian, gardener, and all-purpose volunteer, and her special fascination with her roles of wife and mother.  Her most recent book of poetry, called DOUBLE CROSSING, is poems about Oakland, California, where she lives with her husband, Stuart.

The Bicycle

by Julia Carlson

This morning when I awoke I felt like looking outside to the street. It had been a long time, six weeks since he left me. I had closed myself in staying in bed wrapped in the white sheets day in day out. Today is the first time I had any desire to see what was going on outside of these walls. I saw a man leaning his bicycle against the wall opposite my front window. I had never seen him before. Since when I wondered had he been parking his bicycle on my street?  Who was he?  I pressed my body against the window. My breasts felt cold from the contact with the glass.

Two days have passed and now there is no more bicycle. I worry. I like seeing this rusty bicycle propped against the wall. How come he has stopped coming here -  maybe he had a fight with his mistress. Perhaps he is tired of her. I have learned her name - Audrey.

Today the bicycle was there. As soon as I got up, I went to my window. I pulled the curtains. In the street the man was looking at my window, trying to see if I was there. After a moment I pulled out of his view because I was conscious of my nudity.

Today it was cold and he wore a grey checked cap. It made his ears look comical. He had a loaf of bread and a little brown paper bag, probably breakfast for himself and his lover. Sometimes when I am out walking, I see the woman, small, very pretty, with clear eyes. I don’t think she knows who I am. Yesterday we were both at the laundry and she acted as if she had never seen me. When she left for a minute to get some air, I stole one of her sheets; I wanted to know his smell.

Now when he comes in the morning, if I am at the window, he bows to me. He doffs his cap, and bows like an old gentleman. Sometimes he throws me kisses. Three days ago, I dreamt he brought me bread. I ate it quickly, I was afraid someone would take it away from me.

He is a maniac. Obsessed with habits. He arrives at exactly the same time and always comes from the same direction. I suppose he comes from work, but can he never vary his route?  This makes me angry, as though he may be dull or without curiosity. He always has the loaf of bread and the little paper bag. His clothes all look the same, yet he does not wear a uniform. Probably he buys his shirts and trousers by sixes instead of ones. He parks his bicycle, looks for the key in her letterbox and then he turns. At this moment he bows to me. Then he goes upstairs to HER.

Today he arrived the same as usual. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and then he began to walk to my house. I was afraid and went quickly to the back room and hid. My heart was beating loud, like rain against a metal roof.

I am not sleeping well. I toss and turn in every direction. My bed seems too small. I am looking for something warm to lie against. I wake up earlier and earlier. I know which day and at exactly what time he will arrive. When the time gets closer, the clock’s constant steady ticking vibrates in my head.

Today I motioned for him to come. When he was just at the other side of the window, I pressed my mouth against the glass and kissed him through the transparency. The glass was wet from my lips.

Two days passed, then three. On the fourth day he came. He walked straight to me without any invitation. I pulled the curtains away from the window and pressed my naked torso against the glass. He ran his hands over the glass, caressing my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach. I closed the curtains then. An imprint of my body remained.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This morning I rode my bicycle to Audrey’s, as usual, it’s Wednesday and I finish when the sun comes up. I stopped for bread and got Audrey a raisin tart; she likes those. We’ve been fighting again, mostly because of that woman across the way. She is strange, that’s all. Audrey doesn’t understand she means no harm. I fool around with her, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a game. Today Audrey didn’t leave her key. There was another key in the letterbox in its place. I understood at once. Damn that Audrey. It serves her right. So I went to the other’s house. 

Edie’s Myeloma

by Gail Rudd Entrekin

Edie has pain in her back, too many plasma cells

inside her spine, crowding out the other white blood cells,

the red, the platelets.  This is the day they pass photons

through her brittle spine as she lies very still in a white room,

a large black X drawn on the curve of her waist.

Soon they will cut into her skin and bone, take a sample

from her marrow to check for mitigation.  Edie

who helped me pitch a tent in Iowa, sheltered beside me

in the driving rain all night, where we laughed and slept

and woke up to cows and sunshine.  Edie

who walked among the Utah horses hanging their heads

over their pasture rail to graze our hands.  Whose camera

saw them as dark hills with manes, a silver print still hanging

in her living room beside the Victorian doilies and daguerreotypes,

the baskets and books she makes, the orange poppies waving

at the window among the bird houses and bright modern sculpture

we chose at the garden show.  Edie

whose anger has always been her go-to response

when things fall apart; this time cheerful, optimistic.  Finally,

the biggest bad thing staring her down,

she embraces a new proposition: hope.  

   

* * *

Gail Rudd Entrekin is Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press and Editor of the online environmental literary magazine, Canary (www.canarylitmag.org).  She is Editor of the poetry anthology Yuba Flows (2007) and the poetry & short fiction anthology Sierra Songs & Descants: Poetry & Prose of the Sierra (2002).

Her poems have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines, including Cimarron Review, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and Southern Poetry Review, were finalists for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry from Nimrod International Journal in 2011, and won the Women’s National Book Association Award in 2016. 

Entrekin taught poetry and English literature at California colleges for 25 years.  Her books of poetry include The Art of Healing (with Charles Entrekin) (Poetic Matrix Press 2016); Rearrangement of the Invisible, (Poetic Matrix Press, 2012); Change (Will Do You Good) (Poetic Matrix Press, 2005), which was nominated for a Northern California Book Award; You Notice the Body (Hip Pocket Press, 1998); and John Danced (Berkeley Poets Workshop & Press, 1983).  She and her husband, poet and novelist Charles Entrekin, live in the hills of San Francisco’s East Bay. 

Dream of Carrying Natalie

by Gail Rudd Entrekin

1.

The snow is over my head

my blue snow suit, my father

laughing, picks me up, takes me

down the stairs, through the billows

of white, the dazzle, the bright –

down where the lawn used to be

down where we roller skated

leans into the deep back seat

and warm, settles me safely

down among the coats.

2.

I hold my arms out straight to the sides, hoping

I can lift her, lovely exhausted Natalie in shirt of grey

her black hair blowing, and she stands

behind me, stretches out, takes hold of my arms

and I lift, we rise up, stars blowing

such an upsweep of relief – I am strong

enough and she is so light.

3.

Natalie and I are drifting now.

Somewhere below the fragments of her son

come together, knit themselves closed.

We see boys running.

Surely that one’s Logan

whole again. 

* * * * *

Gail Rudd Entrekin is Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press and Editor of the online environmental literary magazine, Canary (www.canarylitmag.org).  She is Editor of the poetry anthology Yuba Flows (2007) and the poetry & short fiction anthology Sierra Songs & Descants: Poetry & Prose of the Sierra (2002).

Her poems have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines, including Cimarron Review, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and Southern Poetry Review, were finalists for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry from Nimrod International Journal in 2011, and won the Women’s National Book Association Award in 2016. 

Entrekin taught poetry and English literature at California colleges for 25 years.  Her books of poetry include The Art of Healing (with Charles Entrekin) (Poetic Matrix Press 2016); Rearrangement of the Invisible, (Poetic Matrix Press, 2012); Change (Will Do You Good) (Poetic Matrix Press, 2005), which was nominated for a Northern California Book Award; You Notice the Body (Hip Pocket Press, 1998); and John Danced (Berkeley Poets Workshop & Press, 1983).  She and her husband, poet and novelist Charles Entrekin, live in the hills of San Francisco’s East Bay.