Mother Mirror

I used to love watching her get dressed in the mornings.

She'd slip on, one leg at a time, a pair of black or nude silk stockings and pull them up, all the way up her thigh and then her hips, the elastic band snapping at her waist. Or at least it did in my mind.

Afterward, she'd put on her clothes and then all the make-up: eyeliner, mascara, foundation, rouge, and lipstick. I never thought she needed it because, man, my mother was beautiful. But each day she'd put it on and I'd stand beside her, watching it all happen, thinking someday, I'd do it too.

And also, maybe someday, I'd be beautiful.

When I was a girl, I wanted to be just like her. The medium of her body moved with a rhythm that existed entirely in and of itself. Electric. Uprooting and rearranging the world around her with the melody of her feet to the earth. How I wanted to be like that. But it was hard work, to be like my mama. The things I had to do.

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The one that got away

We were enjoying each other's smiles, each other's laughter. Across from me was my father, sitting strongly. The way he sits was always coinciding with the way he was thinking. Campbell, my younger sister was next to me. We always sat abnormally close. Having grown up together in the way we did, a natural closeness always existed in our relations. On this particular day, we had pursued our existing starvation to a restaurant nearby. We were hungry enough to where distance mattered. We chose somewhere called Texas Roadhouse. He shared his love of this place with us. He always chose a booth, a great way to sit comfortably together. In some way, everything he said always felt justifiable.

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Road-Weary Revival

Oddly, I have chosen to write in the same notebook that has held the plethora of documents and details related to the end of my marriage and to our divorce. Our divorce exists in a bag. All of the folders, financial reports, lawyer's bills, court documents and endless journal entries all exist in one simple bag, set aside since then. I dare not delve deeply lest I uncover agony, history, anger, depression, fear, resolve, and resignation, but the notebook is pulled from the bag for what feels like something meaningful and fresh.
Sitting in the light of the afternoon sun, which filters through the leaves and dance their breeze-touched shadows across my studio, I am content.

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It is an ocean because it looks endless.
It is not an ocean because its waves are not regular. There is no pattern to them. No tide.

It is a friend because it invites me to get better.
It is not a friend because it holds me underwater for merciless spans of time.

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Death, ReflectionBird CoxComment
The Things That Matter Most

The things that matter most are not
always tangible. Air matters but you
Can't touch it. Love matters but you can't grab it with your hands.

Yesterday, while driving to the local
Supermarket, an on coming car speeding like a space ship headed to
Mars, zoom past me in a haze. I
Was angry in that moment and wanted to speed up to catch up to him and
Use all the curse words in my vocabulary!
I thought about it for a second, and
Calmed myself. The important thing
Was, I was fine and my car was fine.
That's what mattered the most.

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The Old End of the Barn

Turning over in bed, inching closer to the edge,
she swings her legs around to touch the floor
and rises slowly, not knowing which body part
will sound the alarm. Some days, she crumples
as the pain excruciates up and down
her left side from hip to knee.
She knows the more she moves,
the better she will feel.
Limping to the kitchen for coffee,
human again, the self of her memories,
of pleasure and assurance.

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PoetryEvie SafranComment
When the Piano Got Tuned

Where do you put your photos? On the wall? Which wall? The front foyer so that all who visit see your pride and joy family right away? Or near the garage entrance where shoes get littered and bags get plopped but the traffic is always heavy and so the photos rewarded with much attention? Or does the busyness of that entrance inhibit the noticing? Too utilitarian an area for the reflection that photos should invite?

So, then, bedrooms? Living rooms? Kitchens? Where does family best get situated in the home? And are walls better than mantles? Are they equally good? Walls dignify. Mantles and counters invite. Walls require attentive measuring and nailing. Counters are more art than science. One eyeballs where the frame best finds repose.

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A List of Places Where I've Been Distracted

(Written in Cindy Cunningham’s Tuesday Night Life in 10 Minutes Class)

1. This class. Right now, when I checked my phone under the table a moment ago to see if that important email had come in and saw that it hadn’t, but that a semi-important text had.

2. This morning, during my writing hour, and yesterday morning during my writing hour, and the morning before that. What a luxury to have a whole writing hour to get distracted and not write in!

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Elizabeth FerrisComment
Bigotry is Bigotry: An Analysis Through Experience

Bigotry was something that was always condoned in my school. Now, I’m from a sheltered, upper-class town in Connecticut. By all means, the racism here isn’t the stereotypical Confederate-flag waving redneck type wearing “MAGA” hats and yelling racial slurs (at least not in public) that you’d perhaps see in the Deep South - but it’s just as bad. The people here are just more “polished” about it, I suppose- if inherent racism and chauvinistic ideologies are polished.

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I Help Them

I help them...If i feel i should....
When they don't want me to because my skin is darker than theirs, I help them.

When they disrespect, badmouth, and insult me, I help them.

When they think they don't need help...I help them see we all need help...then i help them.......
When help is asked of me, I help them....

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