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Five Poems by Virginia Bell

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Meuse I

Pron.: /ˈmjuz/

a depression left
in the grass, a shallow
bowl, or profound,

a gap in the hedge
the hog trespassed, in other
words, not the animal

but the space through which
it moved, a river,
the water having graved

out the dirt and stone,
cast a place for itself
to run, helter-skelter

*

or the imprint of the Buddha’s
butt on a mountainside,

the Virgin Mary on toast,
Christ in a snowbank,

in other words, like pareidolia,
Greek for “beyond the image,”

or call it magical thinking,
air-castle, desperation, need

*

from the Middle French for “hiding place”
so, also, the inside shelf above
the closet door, invisible if you didn’t

look straight up upon opening, where
I stashed myself so that I was
always the last one found,

nestled there, I loved listening
to the sound of seeking—pounding feet,
muffled shrieks, and, at last, sighs—

their pretense of giving up
on me, as if I hadn’t performed
this trick a thousand times

*

or how you can also hide
in time, like staying in bed
and pretending to sleep

to avoid saying goodbye
to someone leaving
for another continent

their laughter on the other side
of the wall, leaving impressions
like a hand’s sweaty stain

*
the handprint of a beloved
in cement, finger furrows into
which you—or anyone—

can try to place your own,
palm against where-another-palm-
once-was, so trace

of a pilgrimage, of an ephemeral
immanence, mark
of hoof, of claw, of ball or heel

Meuse II

Pron.: /ˈmjuz/

Panther Hollow,
part of a park
in Pittsburgh,

a valley, or “holler,”
past home of the now
locally extinct wild cats,

pooled with water
in the deep dip between the trees
and long, steep stairs

but which I understood as
hollow panther,
hungry,

or lonely,
its belly translucent
as an Xray

or a sonogram
of a nonviable
blastula

which my mother
witnessed four times
in her life

the hollow panther
of her own body
on a screen,

the ultra-sound of
soon-to-be emptiness,
and so, my sister and I became

DES babies, the impression
diethylstilbestrol
[Pron. / dī-ĕth′əl-stĭl-bĕs′trôl′ /]

or, to speak more plainly,
synthetic estrogen,
left on us:

the risk of clear cell
adenocarcinoma, and that’s
a lot to swallow

*

What was the cure
for panthers
like my mother?

What is it still?
You guessed it.
An evacuation.

A scouring, a raking,
leaving a hollow to be filled
another day—or not—

*

We played in the woods
by the hollow.
Raced on the stairs.

Dared to swim.
Pretended to fish.
Dug for loose change

in the muck. Rubbed sticks
into fire, or tried to. Kept watch
for a sleek form

to move through
the shadows. Later, a girl
I knew in high school

was stalked in the hollow while running.
Caught, pinned, and filled
against her will.

Meuse III

Pron.: /ˈmjuz/

that scarred cleft
under the cliff

of your chin,
where the swing

swung back
that pore

turned pit
after the oil

slicked your
face, that ghost

forest, after fire
or flood, ghost

apple, after pre-
mature frost, ghost

wolf after near
extinction, now

coiled into
coyote DNA,

that way
a grudge

makes a home
circling and

circling, mulish
and mean

it’s in the cup
of my hands

even as I try
for grace

Meuse IV

Pron.: /ˈmjuz/

metaphor for
memory, not the

surface dive
of the short term

but the hippo-
campus-driven

journey to the epi-
sodic, risking

the bends
upon return

to the Present.
Hippocampus, Greek

for “horse”
plus “sea-monster,”

or its gentle
cousin, “seahorse.”

Named concretely
for the shape

of the organ, like
the dress I remember

wearing to my father’s
second wedding,

printed with purple
hippos, rippling

when I moved,
a zoetrope

on my body,
or the red slap

of my mother’s
hand on my face, or,

the grenade
thrown at someone

by my own voice
years later.

Rise carefully
after you go there.

And if you return
too quickly

to the present,
your head spinning

round like an anima-
tronic figure in

a haunted house,
bend back

over, and try
again, find that

bowl of cream
you learned

to whip into sweet
sweet soft butter

Meuse V

Pron.: /ˈmjuz/

metaphor for a hole
in the heart that is, in
the wall between

the ventricles, the prime
pumping chambers, considered
congenital but caused,

most likely, by toxins
ingested by the host
to save its own life

while pregnant, or a hole
in the pipes in the body
of a city, its prime pumping

station subject to
corrosion, corruption,
then everything

sneaks in, the decaying
tunnels seeping their own
lead into themselves

perhaps you’ve read
my friends from Flint
who write about Flint

perhaps, like me, you’ve
booked a flight to L.A.
and haven’t yet read

that the water won’t
be safe to drink after
the wildfires—you’re used

to only worrying about
water in Mexico—perhaps
we will meet in L.A., bottles un-capped,

clink them together
in a dull plastic smack
of sound—

even lead asks us to appreciate
the impression it leaves,
the half-life it once had,

how it dares to trespass.
I’m reminded of the way I leak
into myself

in the best and worst ways—
it takes all I’ve got to decide
which is which

Virginia Bell is the author of the poetry collection Lifting Child from the Ground, Turning Around (Glass Lyre Press 2025) and From the Belly (Sibling Rivalry Press 2012), Virginia Bell won NELLE Magazine’s  Nonfiction Prize in 2020 for the personal essay, “Chicken,” and her poetry won Honorable Mention in the 2019 RiverSedge Poetry Prize, judged by José Antonio Rodríguez.  Her work has appeared in New City Magazine, Five Points, Denver QuarterlySWWIMEAP: The MagazineHypertext, The Night Heron Barks, Kettle Blue Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Rogue Agent, Gargoyle, Cider Press ReviewSpoon River Poetry ReviewPoet LoreThe Nervous BreakdownThe Keats Letters ProjectBlue Fifth ReviewVoltage Poetry, and other journals and anthologies.  Bell is Co-Editor of RHINO Poetry and teaches at Loyola University Chicago and DePaul University. Please visit www.virginia-bell.com

Image: Detroit Publishing Company, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Two Poems by Ann-Marie Maloney

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The Marrow of My Bones

There is a hurt that runs so deep within the marrow of my bones,

Twisted lies

Deceiving smile

Words dipped in scalding tar meant for ill filled gain

The smell of burnt flesh fills the air

As my beauty is stripped, one scar upon another.

You used me to carry out a facade

Bricks and mortar you built

Inhabited by shallow desire of things to fill your bowl of status

Hardwood floors

Gold knobs for kitchen cabinetry

Floor to ceiling bookshelves

Four post beds and classic highboy

Silver encased dinnerware and sunlit porches

Tick-tock went the grandfather clock

People come and go

Your chest swell with pride

Ooo-awww!

Puff it up some more.

Hiding behind smoke and mirrors

Proclaiming a marriage beyond reproach

All the while shattered glass under your feet

causing mine to bleed.

Your insecurities shadowed my smile, turning it upside down

Your imperfections I inherited

My heart singed black by your poison

Seeping into the marrow of my bones.

Buried alive, choking on your shit

I would have suffocated were not for

The marrow of my bones

That rejected the transfusion

Synaptic gaps flush red

Arms stretch wide, take a deep breath

And the breath dug deep down into the marrow of my bones

I am born again

Inhale – oxygen

Exhale – push, push, push

Push out a new life – Without you.

Letter to My Son(s)

LIS–(T)E–NNN

Baby Boy
Some look at you and say that you have a gift.
They’re wrong.
Buried underneath the violence against your hue
Stop and frisk for a headlight
does not necessitate handcuffs
Cut your locs because hiring managers shun you
Refuse to see the spirit in you

Yet your intimacy with words
Flavored in lyricism
Seasoned from joy and pain
Your words, your rhythm marinades in the marrow of the bones

Your vibe leaves us salivating
Our souls stirred by your offering
The musicality beyond doubt
The production credits undeniable
You don’t have a gift, you are the gift.

My boyz,
Do not vibe with the pressure that crushes you,
Vibrate on the level of your solution
Your creativity is your identity It is your essence

Though they plant you as if in the ground
Recall another if you will another time
When hidden in darkness
In your mother’s womb
You emerged into the light of a new day

Today and henceforth,
Go after the sun/ son (or go get your blessing)
You don’t have a gift, you are the gift.

Ann-Marie Maloney is an educator with a diverse background in arts integration, speaking, and writing. She is part of the University of Maryland Writing Project (UMdWP), a chapter of the National Writing Project which focuses on teachers teaching teachers. Her curated lessons are on The Reginald F. Lewis Museum website and she was a featured poet at The National Portrait Gallery. As a facilitator, Ann-Marie designed impactful workshops for teens and launched the “About This Life” podcast along with the “Becoming Enough” online community. With a Masters in Curriculum & Instruction and National Board Certification, Ann-Marie mentors both students and educators, fostering creativity and resilience through arts integration. Ann-Marie is dedicated to promoting healing through poetry, supporting individuals in overcoming life challenges, and helping them find their voice.

Image: Djflem, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Two Poems by Maggie Rosen

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My Milk Glass Mother

You were my thunderstorm mother.

You were my abalone mother.

You were my milk glass mother.

You reveled in flaws. You turned an opaque hobnail to the sun,

You cracked open to reveal cloud after shimmering cloud.

I was your pewter daughter.

I was a crocheted blanket.

I was a camouflaged nest.

I gained as I protected, worked, concealed.

I never showed my need, my dropped stitch.

I would have held you in my arms, not precious but sturdy, lasting, forever.

We were both broken by the brutal,                          

oyster-hard storm. The thunder-head           

battered and blasted without end.

I asked you to swim.

You learned to swim by drowning and then relearning breath. 

I should have known.

Roots of trees reveal the mirrored light of transcendence.

1944 Bible

A book of images, not answers.

Not births, not deaths. No family tree.

Writing on the wall, but not on the pages.

A gentle rectangle around “whom God hath joined” is the only notation.

Photos and papers burst the spine.

Ex-boyfriends, poems from the daughter,

Father’s World War I service record. Asterisk: Silver Star.

My mother opens it and remembers.

She closes it and all fades like a silvered mirror.

As if the foot is dry before and after you dip in the river.

Maggie Rosen (she/her), writes about the intersection between truth and myth, history and family legacy. She has won numerous awards and recognition for her work, including the Moving Words Competition, the Enoch Pratt/Little Patuxent Review Poetry Contest, and the Bethesda Urban Partnership Prize. Her poetry and hybrid work has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.  A poetry chapbook, The Deliberate Speed of Ghosts, was published in 2016 by Red Bird Chapbooks. Her poems and hybrid works have been published in Marrow, Heron Tree, Harpy Hybrid, Waccamaw, Cider Press Review, and Barely South, among others. She lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. See more at maggierosen.com

Image: © Friedrich Haag / Wikimedia Commons

Unsayable by Loreena Freed

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Unsayable

That day you went the cracks of dawn
That fractured us like porcelain
Ran down my road. You called upon
All things but us to start again.
That day I stayed the autumn fell
Whose ancient, cyclical demise
Could not for worlds of red instill
October in your August eyes.
All told, I’m doing rather well.
I have a husband and a home.
My baby has your eyes and Hell
Is freezing over in my own.

Lorena Axman Freed is a poet living in her native Ohio, and received her MA in English from the University of Rochester. She enjoys gardening, gaming and playing paintball.

Image: Bruno Liljefors, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Three Poems by Pamela Mathison-Levitt

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What it feels like to tell your child about the loss of your/their human rights

The day Roe vs. Wade was overturned,
I detached,
a power cord ripped from the outlet, until my charge ran low
and my mechanical movements slowed, my function automated.

Fold the throw blanket. Plump the pillows on the couch. Pick up the laundry. Turn the dial;
close the lid. Pull out the meat for dinner, let it thaw until the juices bleed red on the plate,
oil the pan and let it sizzle. In between everything, double over a kitchen chair, dish towel in hand, tear streaks blotching my face until I cannot hide the pain from the kids running indoors. I modulate my voice, but they hear the cracks, the off-pitch tone and then they want to talk to my face not my back as I keep turning in the other direction because once they see, it will be real.

It will be real that one day, if my child is pregnant and due to our genetic condition
she faces the risk of hemorrhages, she may be forced to bear that child even if she dies
the next minute like I nearly did twice. And I think of their sweet faces and all that another pregnancy would have cost us, would have made me miss about them, the times
they would have reached for me and grasped air, found vacancy, if their father hadn’t agreed
to the vasectomy because I was scared that to be with him meant I would face death a third time.

And yet—vasectomies fail and every day, mothers die in childbirth and now my children must
weigh every choice and the scales are out of balance and how do I tell them, and the meat
is charred in the pan, the washer buzzing, their faces concerned, and the chair wobbles
under my weight, but I stand up and say that Mommy is feeling sad
because they overturned a law today that said a person could have choices to protect themselves or their children if they needed to by having a medical procedure that sometimes is needed when…and I list all the reasons and they ask: why did they do that?

Turning in my Purity Rings: An homage to Nadia Bolz Weber*

In the 1990’s, I felt the fervor,
a pledge not to take a lover.
Instead, to seal my legs with honor,

the Church held out a pen.
It wrangled young people in,
judged their worth and defined their sin.

Then it imparted lessons of shame
to the youth who scratched their name
as though desires are sins to claim.

I, committed to this endeavor,
opted in as I would never
submit but to God, the Father.

Two years later, when my lover
discarded me for another,
ring abandoned on the counter,

I confessed, as if my love was rent;
in my pure heart there was a dent,
a sin for which I must repent,

a bloody sacrifice: my virginity
upon the altar of misogyny,
spoiled because I did not “marry.”

Mary said yes, yet in their obsession
they explain her conception
was immaculate intervention.

This is why no one yells: Oh Mary,
OH MARY, in a moment of ecstasy.
Instead, we submit a plea,

Oh God! We scream on the precipice.
We climb the steps of the edifice;
then are cast out of bed, back to Genesis.

*True Love Waits pledges were employed by Christian and Roman Catholic churches in the 1990’s to promote abstinence, and often involved wearing a purity ring as a reminder of one’s promise. Lutheran minister Nadia Bolz Weber disapproved of the damaging effects of shame within purity culture and requested those who wanted to discard their pledge and ring to turn them in to her whereupon, she and artist Nancy Anderson created a sculpture of a vagina from the rings and presented it to Gloria Steinem.

Forced Birth

Distended belly
swollen with words,
the skin stretched taut,
the words, gnawing.

It is hard to breathe;
they are growing so big,
kicking at other organs,
writhing and twisting at the cord.

The pressure mounts,
the sharp points of each letter pierce.
Watch them ripple as they move,
watch them shudder.

Words were implanted here,
words which must emerge
or be released.
But, they were not meant to be.

If I didn’t consent to speak,
if these words formed against my will,
I need not utter them aloud,
or bring them where they are unwelcome.

Except, you knead the flesh around them.
You cross my legs and
force me to lie with them,
to witness their growth.

These words aren’t meant to be.
I know this.
But you pry open my mouth
and grab my throat, squeezing.

You press your knee down
and the words scream out:
words of generations of words
with nowhere to turn.

I watch you break open
the protective caul.
Words that are not my own
shriek; another set of lungs

filled to the brim.
I never wanted these words.
They developed under duress.
You clamped and wrested them from me.

Now they suckle,
drain out the air and marrow,
and take up space that was meant
for other words to be said.

Pamela Mathison-Levitt is a chronically ill, disabled poet and homeschool mother living in the DMV. Her work often explores themes around her Unitarian Universalist faith, chronic illness, relationships, and mental health. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming in the following publications: Exposed Brick Literary Magazine, Mid-Atlantic Review, Literary Mama blog, Emerald Coast Review, The Anthology for Appalachian Writers, and the Mighty. You can find her work on Insta @pmmlevitt or Facebook at Lines and Branches.

Image: Rlmabie at the English-language Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons