photo by Susannah ConwayReflection
I look in the mirror and see a woman there.
I recognise the sour smell of my
mother’s armpit as she reached over
to put dinner on the table,
her hot summer skin,
olive oil on her Sophia Loren legs
while my skin blistered
red and angry.
I look in the mirror and
hold handfuls of the flesh
that cushions my bones,
rubbery and pliant,
the shape not compliant
with my expectations,
the mind and body disconnected –
how can a belly so empty look so full?
I look in the mirror and remember
learning the language of widening hips
and dark hair between the legs,
not yet knowing that the
body will be reined in when
all it wants to do is grow wild,
to colour outside the strict
demarcated lines of adulthood.
– Susannah Conway
a small question
was answered with
a big, exuberant YEAH
my heart danced
with the energy that flew
from your mouth
the glint in our eyes
lit up a path
for hope to ask
could cut in
– Amanda Oaks
(Click here for the story behind small stones & click here for the back story to this poem.)
Love and Insects
The ride home
like a Sunday sermon.
His words were butterflies.
Eyes on my bare legs,
he barely filled
the space of a minute
of hesitant conversation.
My lashes worked
thumping subliminal messages,
fireflies in a coffee can.
– Jessica Dawson
||Jessica Dawson is the editor at Gunpowder Mouth Press, mouth full of gunpowder, belly full of twigs, you can connect with her on Facebook here.
*poem first appeared in Words Dance #9
Four Ballerinas Resting Between Scenes
This is the part of the song
where he sings it’s a little
unclear and I can’t focus
on anything except to push
the headphones deeper
until I find myself staring
at a calendar painting of Degas’
ballerinas, time caught in strokes of blue
yellow fighting for attention
a naked shoulder, a shadow brushing
across an open back, concentrate
on the phases of the moon wrapped
in her hair, a girl’s secrets do not
disturb, it’s the music that makes her
vulnerable beneath her costume
a guitar climbing up her thigh
she can’t make it loud enough
but remember this isn’t art just
a calendar tacked to a cubicle wall
where everything fits neatly inside
black and white boxes of days
spent waiting between scenes.
– Tammy Foster Brewer
||Tammy F. Brewer is married to the poet, Robert Lee Brewer, and is mom to 2 sons, 2 stepsons & a daughter. She received her BA in English from Georgia State University in 1997. She was born, raised, and still resides in Atlanta, GA where she works as a paralegal.
*poem first appeared in Words Dance #11