Tag: mother

moth on window screen with sunset background
Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash

Old Mother Shipton

1 August 2026 /

Poetry by Elizabeth Starck

I’m just a little alarmed by you in your grey dress.
You – a menacing moth on my window
               the part between the screen and the glass
               (where you can’t really tell what’s in and what’s out)
watching me in my sheets as I eye you sideways,
as if to say I see you, yet not enough to
touch you
               lovingly, with affection, maternally
               or to run from you.
And once I’m past the skip in my heart,
I sit dazed and daunted, aware that you’re there.
Yes, I am a bit alarmed by you,
always reading my mind and when suddenly
I see you inside, it is I
who won’t leave that closedwindowroom,
afraid you will empty my brain
of its greybrown bits and tell me what I really am.
For you have been watching me all along
and I only saw me when I noticed you.

Elizabeth Starck is based in Ohio and Western New York. Her work explores family, embodiment, and the quiet violences of care. Her poems come from her notes app, and were written late at night (or early in the morning, depending on how you look at a night).

flowers during golden hour
Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

Sunrise Dances

19 July 2025 /

Poetry by Hawke Trumbo

My mother taught me to slow dance.

She placed my left hand on her shoulder,
my right hand in her left.
Her right palm rested on the curve
of my spine.

Pre-fab flooring supported our steps
as my feet shadowed her glide.

We swayed in a Virginia valley
to the tune
of a Rocky Mountain hiiiiigh Colorado.

We saved time in a bottle,
lulled by the easy silence
of our pine and oak audience.

We twirled in kitchens,
perfected our timing to strums
’bout poems prayers and promises.

We pivoted as a teenager
found her feet and a mother learned
to loosen her grip.

Our arms stayed firm,
so we never lost each other.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in November 2022.

Hawke Trumbo (they/them) is an East Coast writer and graduate of Chatham University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Their work has appeared in Coffin Bell and for the Western Pennsylvania Disability History & Action Consortium.

Photo by Anna Wangler on Unsplash

7:00 PM, JUNO

28 April 2022 /

Poetry by Stephanie Buesinger

The turtle’s shell is plastic, his insides
spongy – we dug out the hard wires,
tossed out the batteries that made up his belly
left only the soft parts for you.

The first thing I bought from a TV ad,
his shell riddled with holes to project the night sky
you wanted only his squishy body, sweet face
even after I wash him, he smells like you.

They say – watch out
for alligators in shallow water
for poisonous frogs in deep grass, but you
always liked the roughness of shells.

Tonight, under the white moon, the mothers will crawl onto this sand to lay their eggs
Like me, sea turtles can hold their breath for a long time.

Stephanie Buesinger writes fiction and children’s literature and enjoys illustration and photography. With degrees from Wellesley College and the University of Texas at Austin, she has worked in corporate finance and economic consulting. Stephanie is the Blog Editor at Literary Mama. She lives in Florida with her husband, teenagers, and rescue pets.

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