Pour Every woman needs a reservoir A space deep within herself no one can enter We being female and comfortable in our holy should know the direct route to tunnel ourselves down deep within ourselves to bring forth the light to illuminate our way through this long toothed greedy life There is an art to keeping the pilot light lit in a woman’s belly Heavy tongued gossip mongers are attracted to our light like clipped winged flying moths We must do whatwe must do to turn away from this unforgiving thief If we are not careful light unattended surrenders to shadows What is a shadow but the about face inverse opposite of our brightness of being Let us take the time remind ourselves to ourselves to pour sunshine from the dawn’s early light into our spirits The newness of the day is waiting for us — Janel Cloyd is a Poet, Writer and Essayist. She has been awarded a Willow Arts Alliance Residency with history concentration in the Weeksville African American Cultural Arts Center.  She has been …

Grab and Go They give us food here. My mother always taught me to look Inside the clearance bin at grocery stores All the way in the back back, the bar code Sliced through with a permanent marker And a new handwritten price, fifty cents or a dollar. Here, they place the food on plastic picnic tables Here, the give us almost expired chocolates on Fridays One day there were golden balloons tied to a tall parking cone A celebration of sorts, if you squint a little at all the food One day, I took a frozen tray and bit into a cheese ravioli Before I noticed a dark mass multiplying like a tumor Across my fork and down my throat from the bits I already ate. I spat it out. And went back for more the next day. I wear a mask the color of my mother’s hair. That I bought at Smart & Final around the corner Did you know there is a national coin shortage? I saw a sign there at the …

Policy I went on a Monday and there were Many boxes from the food bank there And they said do you want it and I said yes And I looked and said I will take this one It was a lightest box and they said no you can’t Take just that, you have to take all three boxes, Vegetables and fruits and meats. I said well, I can’t carry all that and they said okay and I left All that food there and I wonder where it went. And don’t you ever wonder how policy looks like police?   __ Cecilia Caballero is an Afro-Chicana single mother, poet, essayist, scholar, and lover of all things spooky. Her writing stretches from the scholarly to social justice to the speculative. Born and raised in Northern California to immigrant parents from Michoacan, Mexico, she currently lives with her son in Boyle Heights, LA among an abundance of oranges trees with strange insects of all kinds. Cecilia holds BAs in English and Chicanx Studies from UC Berkeley and she …

    To My Friend in the Fourth Trimester  Listen to the humming inside you, To echoes of ancient mothers praying Comfort, reassuring you: Your arms will never be too weary To cling to him as you sway, susurrations Like wind on the pond behind you. Let him teach you to bend again. Find the rhythm of your throbbing hips, Trace the marbled stretch marks,  Marvel at your heavy breasts, Your hands as they mix formula. Tell the stories you will soon forget. Of the carrier cutting your shoulder, Of his sturdy, demanding body Sighing and dreaming against your chest.  Tell him your mother’s promises, Steady his small hand as he reaches. One day he will steady yours, too.   __ The daughter of Indian immigrants, Sunita Theiss was born and raised in Georgia. She is an alumna of VONA/Voices, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in MER VOX, Jaggery, Whale Road Review, pidgeonholes, and others. She still lives in Georgia with her family, not far from her childhood home. __ Raising Mothers is a …

My Mother Told Me This Would Be Hard the only way my child will sleep is holding a toy dump truck it’s wood, and that makes me a good mother sorts shapes too, and i limit the time he spends delighting at a green frog and a purple penguin  i whisper small promises read about an ice cream-eating caterpillar about the wheedle on the needle about a bunny named nicholas i sing dreams and big wishes into bob dylan lyrics thinking maybe he’ll ask me to dance with him if it plays one day at his wedding one day i try to teach him words my mother taught me tell him his dadu’s adrak chai was without rivals  and haldi will stain everything yellow but i have forgotten how to say i am sorry for insisting on lunchables for shaming you when you packed parathas rolled with love in the early morning for calling them gross weird               unamerican the only way my child will sleep is holding a small american flag he waves it …