She is thin. She is listening
to them discuss this in the kitchen.
The walls, the thinnest. She is
nursing a baby and overhearing
crumbs, a trail to the cauldron
of their mouths.
Excerpt from Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law
by Alina Stefanescu forthcoming this spring
I woke early this morning to the news that a certain Republican senator had tweeted last night his intention to vote against witnesses in the impeachment trial. Trying to push down a sense of anger and dismay, I returned to Lisa Rosenberg’s poem which I first read yesterday.
after the left hook of Gustavo Hernandez’ poem title hits you, the right cross of his dedication leaves its mark. You tap play to hear the sure tenor of him read Across the Southwest our Mothers were Sidelined and note that his voice is not angry.
In my own work, I am sometimes still crossed up between two tellings or the sense I didn’t say everything I wanted to say.
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