House in the Heartwood

by Andrena Zawinski

The house on Summerdale Street burnt down,

its fans of wallpaper flowers went up in smoke,

the creak in the first step––gone,

the veined glass pane,

the hum of the furnace kicking in,

the drip drip of the kitchen spigot,

the rattle of ghosts conjured

in its shadows,

the root cellar fragrant with herbs,

just like that––all gone,

up in smoke.

Inside my heart, another house constructs itself––

off the back porch, bleached white sheets balloon

on lines where wind

and everywhere it has been

remembers those sticky summers,

the soapy snap of wet

I wound myself in

to get cool and feel

nubs of breasts beginning

to harden there.

At Gualala, a coast and lifetime away––

inside a redwood den, a wildfire has hollowed out

and scarred a heartwood with dark.

Wrapped in its own cool shroud of moss

wet with fog passing through, nothing

rustles or moves but my feet upon the path

away from it. As a young girl,

I would have happily lost myself

inside its cave walls, taken for my own

this thing, this heart, a home

too large for anyone to hold.

* * * * *

"House in the Heartwood" was first published in Ariel XXI, 2003 (Triton College Salute to the Arts Award).

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

The thirteenth Moon Prize* goes to Alexis Rhone Fancher's poem "I Was Hovering Just Below the Hospital Ceiling, Contemplating My Death" —backdating to the full moon of September 6, 2017. This poem takes my breath away.

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.

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 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 while I will run a few months behind with this prize—soon I expect to catch up to the current month.

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.

Today's Moon Prize, the twelfth Moon Prize,* goes to Nina Rubinstein Alonso's poem "Gender Veils: Moth Women"—backdating to the full moon of August 7, 2017. This poem has wings.

Gender Veils: Moth Women     

by Nina Rubinstein Alonso

1. Veils

First time Tangier           

women in black veils                                      

wrapped like moths at night 

wings stuck to our front door

chill November signals winter

or something else meaning unclear 

tubes of dark cloth with

women folded inside

walking fear

because our voices

vibrate high notes judged 

unconvincing meaning female

wrapped in satin shawls

lower the tone try to understand

pressure of gender generations  

no school no vote own no   

property even babies belong to ‘him’ 
father brother husband

holy books distort dogma

pulled down from infinite source

as if divine wears gender.

2. Ropes

Woman in a Persian garden

arms chained to a blooming tree

no dancing nymph

no swirl of drapery

she screams she cries            

who wouldn’t go mad 

wearing cuffs of gold or iron

caged prisoner wrists

can’t move

can’t try can’t attempt

let rules from ancient days

bend before my axe.

3.    Earth Woman Sky              

                                              

She draws moth wings

dark shapes                                             

luna six spot                        

burnet grey dagger

emperor gum

blotched emerald                  

silver vagabond                   

teardrop orchid

adders mouth

adam and eve                      

fairy slipper name after name

lifting moth woman 

             

bent over hair nailed to the ground

cut free will she stand       

are her legs strong enough                     

can earth wings fly?

4.  Noises of leaden prayer

In the brass heat of day

wrapped women

fear men

carrying weapons  

                                                                                                                                                                   

fear change                                                                                                                                          
I’m one spy of many                        

writing underground pages              

whispering under my veil   

                           

pouring light                

generations forward                

we’ll get shot at 

bleed explanations

before brutes  

hearts nailed tight

as it belief makes                 

violence holy

supposedly sacred

banners wave

fraud as truth 

lies insist

trying to shout us down

with noise of funerals

undulant thunder

of leaden prayer.

* * * * *

Nina R. Alonso's work has appeared in Ibbetson Street, The New Yorker, Ploughshares, U. Mass. Review, Sumac, WomenPoems, Constant Remembrance, Cambridge Artists Cooperative, Muddy River Poetry Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Black Poppy Review, BagelBards, etc. Her stories appeared in Southern Women's Review, Broadkill Review, Tears and Laughter, etc., and most recently in Peacock Literary Review. She works with Constellations a Journal of Poetry and Fiction.

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 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 while I will run a few months behind with this prize—eventually I expect to catch up to the current month.

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.

Asleep

                                      

by Anne Peterson

Waiting with quiet patience,

praying for some response.

Why don’t you wake up?

Blurs of white uniforms

unaware and detached,

an insensitive sun

shines apathetically.

They wheel in a machine 

to breathe for you.

Flashing lights 

have people running,

words meant to reassure

do not,

silent silence.

The machine wheeled out.

“I’m so sorry.”
Tightened muscles,

senseless sobbing.

Why didn’t you just wake up?

* * * * *

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.

Maternal Fears

by Mary Alacoque Ryan

Two days after the funeral

she found his young pyjamas.

Like a smoker about to quit

she dragged in his last smell.

Now each night

I bend low over you,

smell your smell,

feel your skin and hair,

and inhale you into my very soul.

Clouds Cento #5

A found poem, source: Clouds by Aristophanes. Trans. Ian Johnson.

by Eileen Murphy

when it rains

how sweet it is

to snuggle and snore

and let your thinking loose—

with thread

around its foot

frogs from pomegranate peel

fleas’ footprints

quivering poplar leaves

are laughing as plane trees

whisper

softly to the elms

(it may well be) you move on

to physical desires

a honey cake outside your wool blankets

the one there with long hair

the spinner of words

* * * * *

A former Chicagolander, Eileen Murphy now lives 30 miles from Tampa. She received her Masters degree from Columbia College, Chicago. She teaches literature and English at Polk State College in Lakeland and has recently published poetry in Thirteen Myna Birds, Tinderbox (nominated for Pushcart Prize), Yes Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Rogue Agent, Deaf Poets Society, and other journals. Her website is mishmurphy.com.

                      

Waking Up in October

by Eileen Murphy

The autumn time-change:

the door from death is permeable,

Grandma, brother

knock for attention.

I ask them questions

with blood & photos & flowers & tears

& they answer as best they can

though I’m too old

to hear clearly,

can barely make out their words.

Tonight, Grandma is young

& hopes to marry someone

who’s not a brute.

Baby Brother  

is still 16

& surfing all these years.

After,

dog barks me awake. I whistle

her in. She curls at

my feet, filled with light—

* * * * *

A former Chicagolander, Eileen Murphy now lives 30 miles from Tampa. She received her Masters degree from Columbia College, Chicago. She teaches literature and English at Polk State College in Lakeland and has recently published poetry in Thirteen Myna Birds, Tinderbox (nominated for Pushcart Prize), Yes Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Rogue Agent, Deaf Poets Society, and other journals. Her website is mishmurphy.com.