Jeri Theriault

Girlhood

I keep coming back to the Virgin

who entered via DNA & lodged

in my growing organs

like the cache of pearly

ova nestled in my fetal ovaries

little promises my childhood

ballast Hail Mary full of grace

theme song of all the Catholic

girls—who obeyed & prayed

never thought much

about our souls

in third grade we danced

a Mary May dance in blue dresses

& swayed with the grace

I would later see in Botticelli’s

young Mary—the way she held

her hands her blue cloak.

We studied everything

about that moment with the angel

when we were eight

but by thirteen we wanted

high-heels & kisses unclasped

our rosaries & rolled our school skirts

short. Mary appeared

in stained glass & blue paintings—

her official pigment—ultramarine

from lapis lazuli elevated

to immaculate icon & called

the Queen of Heaven.

I’d rather think of her in undyed

linen when the angel appeared

far too holy for the unsuspecting

girl who however frightened

knew she must say yes

on that starch-scented afternoon

at the very end of childhood.

---

Jeri Theriault’s recent awards include the 2023 Maine Arts Commission Literary Arts Fellowship, the 2023 Monson Arts Fellowship, and the 2022 NORward Prize (New Ohio Review). Her poems and reviews have appeared in THE RUMPUS, THE TEXAS REVIEW, THE ATLANTA REVIEW, HOLE IN THE HEAD REVIEW, and many other publications. Her collections include RADOST, MY RED, (M)OTHER, and SELF-PORTRAIT AS HOMESTEAD. Jeri lives in Maine.

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Annette Sisson

Deep in Milkweed

My grandfather shuffled

his family to a few

sloping acres he’d wrangled

in the country, a crudely

framed shack—shallow

footings, foundation,

studs, flimsy roof.

No insulation 

or running water, a single

woodstove, old

sheets for bedroom walls.

He’d thought to finish

the house by fall, collapsed

into pneumonia, lost

his job. Winter crept in.

His sons lined

the tarpaper shell with newsprint.

They slept in mittens,

coats over sweaters, three

to a mattress. Between

coughs, he swore he’d plumb

the place, put up

drywall when spring swept away

the ice. In the warm

seasons, he prayed each

day for easy

breath, died before the parched

leaves dropped.

His children, angular and thin,

rambled the hill

deep in milkweed. Sharp

pods scraped  

their skin as they scanned for monarchs.

Tufts of floss

released, ribboned the empty

heat, the sky.

---

Annette Sisson has poems in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Rust and Moth, Cloudbank, Lascaux Review, Blue Mountain Review, Cider Press Review, Tupelo’s Milkweed Anthology, and others. Her second book, Winter Sharp with Apples, is forthcoming from Terrapin Books in October 2024; her first book was published by Glass Lyre in May 2022. Her poem “Fog” won The Porch Writers’ Collective’s 2019 poetry prize; her work has also placed in Frontier New Voices, The Fish Anthology, Lascaux Review’s poetry prize, and many other contests. She has received multiple nominations for The Pushcart Prize or Best of the Net. https://annettesisson.com

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Erica Reid

How to Skin a Deer

Your guess

is as good

as mine – I

am the baby

of soft city

slickers, but

my papaw

would have

known. He

grew up in

Appalachia,

helped me

with my

leaf projects

when mom

shrugged.

I failed

to ask him

enough. I

was never

tough, winced

when he

brandished

hot tweezers

to pull my

splinters.

Papaw,

can you hear?

I need to

skin a deer.

I want to

feed myself

with my own

knife. And cry

for the choice

I have made.

Mule deer

wander

my yard

unafraid, under

trees I am certain

have names.

---

Erica Reid’s debut collection Ghost Man on Second won the 2023 Donald Justice Poetry Prize and was published by Autumn House Press earlier this year. Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more. ericareidpoet.com

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