a terrible alphabet

BY JULEIGH HOWARD-HOBSON

Written for those times when an annoying and pestering sort of child insists on yet something else being read to it. If all goes well, said child will have shrunk away in tears by the time you reach N, but, if not, the last line is very clear regarding the cessation of further literary adventures.
 
A is for ambulance, when people die.
B is for bloody, bang-bang, and bye-bye.
C is for corpse, which is what you become.
D is for dead and for dreadful and dumb.
E is for elegy, also for eek.
F is for frightful, fearsome, and freak.
G is for ghastly, going away.
H is for heaven or hell left to pay.
I is for icky and itchy and irk.
J is for jagged and jealous and jerk.
K is korrupted, and L is too lllllong.
M is for moaning one last mournful song.
N is for nothing, which dead people need.
O is a type of red liquid you bleed.
P is for parasite and also plot.
Q comes before R, and R is for rot.
S is for seeping and silent and slice.
T is for telling you never die twice.
Just five other letters come after U,
The first one is V which is for voodoo.
WXYZ are the very last four
After them, it's all done. Good bye. No more.

Juleigh has three children and is the Assistant Poetry Editor of Able Muse. Her poetry has appeared in Hip Mama, Mezzo Cammin, The Lyric, Soundzine, Poemeleon, The Raintown Review, Caduceus: The Poets at Art Place Vol. 8, among other venues. She is a Million Writers Award "Notable Story" writer, a Predators and Editor's top 10 finisher, and has been nominated for both the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Her work is forthcoming in Best of The Barefoot Muse Anthology, The Raintown Review, Persepolis, Nite Blade, and Sonnetto Poesia.

three poems

BY MIKE BERGER

Leather Tome

The finely bound book caught my eye --
shiny brown leather with gold script.
It stood out from the other worn tomes on
the shelf. It must be a new addition.

Was it one of the classics? I stared intently
at it as I approached, but the title was
impossible to read until I drew close.

Lifting it from the shelves, I hefted
it in my hands. The leather cover was
slick and smooth; it looked to be about
three hundred pages.

The title seem to jump off the shiny
leather: "Saving Your 16-year-old." This
could be a revelation for all parents
on teens.

The preface went on forever, rambling
for more than twenty pages. Stopping
at three pages in, I turned to the first chapter.

In the middle of the first page was a
single sentence set in large type. It read,
"You're Too Late." The rest of the book
was blank.


Saving The Younger Generation

The younger generation is going to pot --
literally. Rotund has replaced the
scarecrow look. Mesmerized by the
tube, they can consume enough junk
food to feed the starving masses.

A brilliant solution has occurred
to me. I'm applying for a patent.
It's a sure way to get kids off the
couch without coercion.

They won't use the exercise machine --
too much work. You must appeal to
their natural instincts.  lt must be
captivating without much work. I have
invented the perfect thing. My patent
pending is a motorized Frisbee.


SURPRISE

The brat next door is a snot.
He's nine with a surly attitude.
You’d think he was fourteen
The way he talks back to you.

I'd like to hit him with a stick.
When he flaps his smart mouth.
If I ended up in the gray-bar hotel,
I'm thinking it might be worth it.

There are people who irritate you.
With this kid that's an understatement.
He's a burr -- chapped lips and grinding teeth --
All wrapped up in one obnoxious package.

He has a birthday just a month away.
My Pollyanna wife says maybe he'll change
I think the only way to stop his mouth
Would be with a hot potato.

I'll make him a fine birthday present.
It will be a highly decorated pinata.
I'll fill it with miniature Snickers bars.
And I'll let him know what's in it.

I'll give him my old broomstick.
You know he will wait for his party.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall.
When he whacks that stainless steel piñata

fall haiku and limerick contest winners

We're calling a tie this year in the Haiku category between Jesse Johnston (aka: @NewDadHaiku) and Dan Indante (aka: www.maddadzblog.com). Our Limerick category winner is Ted Jean, a recently retired dad and grandfather. Congrats, fellas! You'll each receive a bean bag ashtray and some bumper stickers.

HAIKU CHAMP #1
Jesse Johnston
New York, NY
aka: @NewDadHaiku

"Hippos Go Berserk!"
has a less bloody ending
than I expected.

Waking up screaming
would never occur to me
had I his schedule.

His diaper rash blooms
intense as cherry blossoms
and as transient.

That caterpillar
was either very hungry
or totally high.

Elasticity
thy name is baby scrotum
my tugging son proves.

Constantly pooping
my son proves himself worthy
the heir to the throne.

I leave his room like
a band does the stage knowing
they'll play an encore.


HAIKU CHAMP #2
Dan Indante
Beverly Hills, CA
aka: www.maddadzblog.com

"Dad Haiku: A Partial, Er, Manuscript"

A red minivan?
I can't give up my testes
Deal with a Lexus

Remember money?
Then we wanted to have kids
Such fond memories

Broke broke broke broke broke
Fat fat fat fat fat fat fat
Bald bald bald bald bald

Here's some cereal
You want the blue bowl, not red?
Go to school hungry

I'm watching TV
You want to watch iCarly?
I'm walking the dogs


LIMERICK CHAMP
Ted Jean
Milwaukie, OR

We wrote to our daughter we miss her.
We wish we could hug her and kiss her.
What offense so momentous
has made her resent us?
How can two loving parents so piss her?

ode to an episiotomy

BY WHITNEY COLLINS

Oh, give me a frontal lobotomy,
Not another episiotomy.
Cause funny it ain't,
For me or my taint.
This procedure, illegal, it outta be.

Dear Doctor, I beg: pretty please
For a c-section's relative ease,
Instead of a cut --
From my hoo-hah to butt -- What?!?!?
You give me a stress ball to squeeze?!?!

When your child has a 15-inch skull,
Request vodka and Xanax to dull,
Then prepare for a push
That renders your tush
Completely and utterly null.

To illustrate this for a man,
Shove some dynamite up in his can;
Crack a beer while you watch
The demise of his crotch,
Then ask him if he's going to breastfeed.

(That's right motherf*ers, I don't have to rhyme if I don't want to.)

Listen up, assholes and bitches,
After 65 tight-as-hell stitches,
I deserve diamonds!!
A transplanted hymen!!
And some Lanacane damnit! This itches!

So, before getting reamed by a rhino,
Get narcotics galore from your gyno.
Make out your will,
Take a handful of pills,
Smoke a bong, do some shots, be a wino.

But of course, in the end, it's all worth
The pain for the mirth of the birth.
But no one will blame you
Or call you insane if you
Decide to get your tubes tied, become a lesbian, and leave your family.

Whitney Collins has obviously had a couple of episiotomies. She can be reached at: whitneycollins@mac.com.

momku haiku -- a mother's first week

BY DANIELLE ABRAMSOHN

A moment of prayer
Anesthesiologist
Bring my goddamn drugs

I nurse my ego
He nurses my sagging breasts
We toast our futures

His golden stream arcs
The baby pees in my tea
Shrugging, I chug it

Four loads of laundry
Poised on the brink of mildew
My hamper mocks me

Something is leaking
Could be diaper, could be boob
This new life is moist

As a homeschooling mom of four, Danielle Abramsohn has had many breastfeeding related adventures. She pens moist haikus in the wee hours and writes novels with a much drier sense of humor. She can be reached at: kochanski42@yahoo.com.

mr. and mrs. noah nova

BY LINDA ANN STRANG

Mr. and Mrs. Noah Nova

retire and buy a houseboat,
nouveau riche in ostriches
and other flightless birds.
She secretly trains two circus fleas
with stag beetles for extras.
What an act and what a trapeze!

With hymns to Rachel Carson in heaven,
the evening affords a doggy coupling
with Mr. Noah the night rhinoceros,
the hyenas high and the glowworms low.
Then it's gin for breakfast
with a bowl of elvers, margaritas,
and a juniper dove.

They take to fondling one another
in public. He cups her breast
while an ibis looks on.
They have toe rings, ring tones,
rose tattoos, a white bowler hat.
Mr. Noah affects a polka dot cravat;
Mrs. Noah, a boa constrictor.

They learn high-stakes poker,
qigong, gun running,
not-on-your-nelly belly dancing,
and publish the proof on Facebook.

So, their children sequester a pea-green boat,
taking Magellan as a nom de guerre,
muttering things like, "For crying out loud,"
forsaking the owl and the pussy cat,
wielding a sextant and a swizzle stick,
they set sail for another cloud.

Linda Ann Strang is a single mom who lives in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. She's had "parental poems" published in Literary Mama and MotherVerse, among other magazines. She can be reached at: lindaannstrang@yahoo.ca.

tabula rasa

BY KATE DELANY

You give birth to a stranger, and it surprises you.

You expect the face of the person
who's been waiting so long
in the elevator shaft of your stomach
to be a friendly one
when they get off at the bottom floor,
but when their unfocused eyes
don't search out yours,
you can only assume
there's been some mistake,
that in between screams,
they're contacting their embassy.

Somehow you imagined
a familiar splinter
working its way out of your skin,
so you could say, oh right,
I remember when that got lodged in there
last Tuesday!
Somehow you imagined
when looking at the ultrasound machine
that you'd been seen, as if
there were a periscope in the stomach
to peer up and out.
Somehow you thought of yourself
as penpals meeting at last after so many
long intimate letters. A hiccup of awkwardness,
then all easy familiarity.

But plopped in your arms
like groceries or a feral cat
is someone you've never met. Oh sure, they'll say,
she's got your eyes, your sister's mouth, grandma's
cleft chin, but they're just playing meteorologist
friendlying up the storm, scuttling its way
up the Eastern seaboard, naming it
George, Rita, Katrina, just before
it leaves us drenched and homeless.

So be braver than that.
Look this stranger in the eye,
and say, I don't know you at all
and that's what's wonderful,
and that's what's terrible --
you could be anyone.

Kate's previous publications include a book of poetry, Reading Darwin, published by Poets Corner Press. Her fiction and poetry have recently appeared in such magazines and journals as Art Times, Barrelhouse, Jabberwock Review, On the Premise, Philadelphia Stories, Sotto Voce, and Spire Press. She teaches in the English department at Rowan University in Glassboro, NJ.

minnesota thighs

BY MAGGIE STEWART

In the summer,
sweating in the air-conditioned Toyota, I ask:

Who turned on my seat warmer?
But it's never on. Just my body
adjusting to 50.

Today, it's cold enough outside to hold the Starbucks cup
without a cardboard sleeve.
Let the burn penetrate hand, and travel
to the legs that push
through unplowed parking lot.
My legs skirt
and zigzag around

the dance of salted cars parked helter skelter

in a lot where snow has erased

the yellow lines.

Memory appears like fruit flies in the kitchen. There
in front of your face. Clap your hands. Look

in the palms.
Gone.

What the hell did I come out here for?
I get in the seat-heated Toyota, start it up, back up,
go. With coffee. Without my list.

Forget my list,
forget my husband's birthdate while filling out a form,
leave my Visa card
on the sticky table at the Hungry Tummy Restaurant.
Yet remember what Mr. Peterson said in eighth grade biology
to us Minnesota girls.
The body, he said, adapts.
In winter, our thighs will collect fat cells
to protect us from the cold.

I drive slow through the snow, note

the same old streets that get plowed.

The ones that don't.

Apparently, in eighth grade,
Nicole Gillete's pom-pom thighs
had a higher threshhold than my own
to the cold. Hers
remained smooth and thin like a plastic Barbie doll's legs.

Winter wakes up the mind.

Snowdrifts that curl like waves

between the garage

and the house next door

bring you back.

Memory shapes memories

the way you want them.

I have no idea

what I left the house for, but here is the Denim Depot.
The uncomfortable way I'm forced to sit up straight
in order to breathe in these jeans
gives me reason to pull in
to this finely plowed lot.
It is time to call my Fat Jeans:
Skinny Jeans.
Cowgirl up. Go up a size.

Teenage girls tip toe cautiously

in suede boots over the neatly
piled snow in front of the Depot entrance.
Butter cream frosting lining the sidewalk.
The perfect edges on a Sweet Sixteen birthday cake.
I plow by in rubber and nylon.
Open the door first.

I drive home, the last inch

of hot coffee gone Frappuccino.
The plastic Denim Depot bag
stiff with negative wind-chilled air.
The garage door clunks open.

Steam from car exhaust hits frigid air and
fills the garage like a biology experiment

in Mr. Peterson's class.
I go to turn the key and see the "E."
Gas. I left the house for gas.

Maggie's poetry has appeared in local magazines in Minnesota and Illinois. This poem is about the things a mother forgets, the odd things remembered. She can be reached at: magstw@comcast.net.

the bright side

BY MICHAEL FRISSORE

We could handle endless
Thomas and Caillou marathons,
but this morning, Alex requested
Barney, for what, at least to us,
was the first time.
 
If this begins another cycle, I...
I don't know what we'll do.
 
How did this happen?
We've been hiding Barney
from him like a handgun,
locked away,
never to be used,
because we would only
end up hurting each other.
 
But…
 
At least Barney teaches something,
like the alphabet and shapes and things.
What did he get from the other two shows,
other than a love of trains and Canada?

Michael Frissore is the author of a chapbook called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, The Smoking Poet, Turbulence, Puffin Circus, Barrier Islands Review, Eudaimonia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He writes for slurvemag.com. Mike grew up in Massachusetts and lives in Oro Valley, Arizona with his wife and son.

sonnet: on the homemade artemis costume my daughter's teacher expects me to make

BY CAROLINE BICKS

Shall I compare this to a bed of nails?
It is more painful and more treacherous:
Rough judgment fuels my fear that I shall fail,
My crappy crafts are all too infamous.
A bed of nails tortures all at once;
Pincushions mark a thousand tiny deaths.
And every stitch reminds me I'm a dunce,
Since when I basted backwards in home ec.
While other daughters shall be draped divine,
Mine will be a clothespin goddess tripping;
And where they shall have props homemade and fine,
She will hold a bow of duct tape ripping.
O, how will I fend off her tears of brine?
Screw it. I'll just buy the things online.

Caroline's essays have been seen and heard on babble.com, in the book and show Afterbirth: Stories You Won't Read in a Parenting Magazine (St. Martin's Press), in the New York Times, and on NPR's All Things Considered. She is an English Professor at Boston College, where she teaches Shakespeare and Women's Studies. For fun, she blogs about how the Bard meets suburban mommy life at Everyday Shakespeare. Caroliine also has a regular column on errant parent with Michelle Ephraim. She can be reached at: bicks@bc.edu.

limerick and haiku summer poetry contest

We received lots of hilarious poetry for our First Annual Limerick and Haiku Summer Poetry Contest. And, of course, nothing warms our hearts more than seeing disgruntled parents putting forth their best sarcasm. All of our finalists and winners will receive an "errant parent" trucker hat and an "i'll bring the whine" bumper sticker. Congratulations!

Winner, Best Haiku

MATERNITY PANTS by Doug Cox

Low cut, secret fit,
Free tube of hemorrhoid cream
With ev'ry purchase.

Doug Cox was born and raised in Fresno. His poems have recently appeared in Apalachee Review, Chiron Review, Crab Orchard Review, New Madrid, and Suss. He currently lives with his wife and their 2-month-old son within driving distance of an enormous Motherhood Maternity outlet. He can be reached at: bdougcox@gmail.com.

Winner, Best Limerick

MIXED EMOTIONS by Ross Murray

This bundle of joy lying next to me
Is a gift sent from heaven and meant to be.
I'm reeling in bliss,
But still kind of pissed,
At the doctor who botched my vasectomy.

Ross Murray's weekly column appears on Log Cabin Chronicles. His humor pieces have also appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency and The Big Jewel, among other publications. He lives in Stanstead, Quebec with four children and several pets he doesn't much care for. The pets, that is. Ross can be reached at: ross_murray@sympatico.ca. His collection of columns, You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?, is available through Townships.

Other Haiku and Limerick Finalists

CHEERY O'S by Todd Atchison

Comfy blue sofa
It feels strange having hot sex
Where kids eat breakfast
 
THE DUEL by Todd Atchison

Deadline approaches
How can I write and ignore
fierce lightsaber fights?

After being a stay-at-home dad/house-husband/grad student for seven years, Todd Atchison's muse was baby-wiped, then brutally sacrificed upon the altar of academic discourse. In 2008, he received a Ph.D. in American Literature -- finally completing a dissertation when his toddler would nap. When he's not donning a cape to play Zurg, he slowly reacclimates himself to the working world. He can be reached at: s.t.atchison@gmail.com.

POT-ULANCE by Gargi Mehra

Every time little Hiya felt pressured,
To her pants, with her fingers, she gestured.
We'd whisk her off to the loo,
Thinking she'd do a poo,
Turns out we were just being pestered.

Gargi is a writer from India. Over the last six years, she has written humor pieces for leading Indian newspapers and magazines. Her fiction has appeared in Everday Fiction and Six Sentences. Visit her blog: Gargi's World.

SALINE DREAMS by Bill Newman

There's a craze that is sweeping the nation
For girls upon their graduation.
So, I'll take out a loan,
Second-mortgage our home,
For my daughter's new breast augmentation.

JUST SHOOT ME by Bill Newman

I really can't stomach Diego
Or Dora or Elmo or Legos.
In fact, I detest
All the things kids like best,
So, yes, I will leggo your Eggo.

EARL GREY AIN'T GONNA CUT IT by Bill Newman

Is it really so wrong around four
To open the Frigidaire door,
And mix Jagerbombers
(They make me much calmer)
'Cause carpool is really a chore?

Bill Newman thinks all children should learn how to hang metal blinds, aerate the lawn, and mix martinis for Daddy by age 4. Is that so wrong? Bill doesn't have a blog, but he does have a hernia.

HEADBOARDS by Ross Murray

The baby's asleep, and the boys
Are snoozing surrounded by toys,
While middle-aged lovers
Skulk under the covers
Trying to have sex without noise.

Ross Murray's weekly column appears on Log Cabin Chronicles. His humor pieces have also appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency and The Big Jewel, among other publications. He lives in Stanstead, Quebec with four children and several pets he doesn't much care for. The pets, that is. Ross can be reached at: ross_murray@sympatico.ca.His collection of columns, You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?, is available through Townships.

going to church, watching you sleep

BY ADAM HUGHES

GOING TO CHURCH
You'd think we were setting out on the Hajj,
packing our bags for golden-roofed Medina
and prophet-kissed Mecca. Three trips to the car,
Bibles and baby toys, diaper bags and enough
lanolin for a troupe of midwives. Part dad,
part preacher, part Sherpa, we'll get to the summit
eventually. But I can't guarantee we won't leave
something behind.
 
Just please, don't let it be the Boppy.
 
Packed and finally ready to depart, church starts
in 10 minutes, 11 minutes away. Something
tells me I'm not in the right frame of mind to preach.
I'd blame it on the baby, but she's not the one
who bought all this crap. Halfway to church
 
we remember the diaper bag.

WATCHING YOU SLEEP
Close your fairy-kissed eyes;
I'll be here when you wake up.
Dream your dreams that I can only
imagine, images I can't comprehend.
I watch your mouth move, eyes fluttering
and wonder what visions you see,
what nocturnal tales you could
tell me. Do you dream of an endless
 
string of cars and bottles and dry diapers?
I should sleep too, but I can't
resist just watching you. You'll wake
soon enough. In the flash of a lightning
bug, it's morning. I wake you up
to begin the new day and you cry
at the sight of the sun.
 
But it's okay, Dad. The next sleep is only
17 hours away.

Adam Hughes is a writer and pastor from Lancaster, Ohio. He is a graduate of Ohio Christian University and his poety has appeared in several online and print journals, including: The Houston Literary Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Boston Literary Magazine, and Gloom Cupboard. He also sits on the editorial board for Triggerfish Critical Review. He enjoys being outside, reading, and spending time with his wife and infant daughter. He can be reached at tatelestai@yahoo.com.

the baby

(With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

BY KATE HAAS

Once upon a midnight weepy, as I pondered, oh so sleepy,
Over many curious volumes of much-studied baby lore,
It was Leach -- or was it Sears? -- on whose pages fell my tears,
O, but naught could quell my fears or lift the burden that I bore.
Would sleep elude me evermore?

Of those authors I was wary in that fateful January,
For I'd scanned each separate page and had discovered no sure cure.
And my weary brain was yearning, my desire for sleep was burning,
Yet how soon would I be learning that I had another chore!
Would it last forevermore?

Twas then I heard a wailing -- but perhaps my ears were failing --
O, perhaps the babe still slept, safe behind the nursery door!
Curses! No, I'd hoped in vain, he was crying (was it pain?),
And the question in my brain was: would he sleep? (He did before.)
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Baby," said I, "Child of trouble! Why should all our woes be double?
Why should both of us be wakeful on the Night's Plutonian shore?
If you must awake, well fine, but the night is also mine.
All this nursing makes me whine -- go back to sleep now, I implore!"
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Husband!" I called. "Be not dismayed. The books say this curse will fade."
"You mean someday I'll get laid?" he muttered, then commenced to snore.
Menfolk -- they want stimulation. Babies -- they demand lactation.
Want maternal adoration? Give me sleep, hours by the score.
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

Damn you Sears (William and Martha) sitting round your cozy hearth,
With those seven slumbering babies (and you're no doubt planning more).
Your smug sleep tips leave me cursing (we've tried the "father nursing"),
But the night is fast dispersing. O, how long will this endure?
Quoth the baby, "Evermore."

Then methought I heard a noise -- nay, a sweetly speaking Voice,
And it prophesied that soon these midnight troubles would be o'er!
If I heard the voice aright, my babe will someday sleep all night,
O, unspeakable delight! Will I no longer nights deplore?
Quoth the baby, "Nevermore."

"Voice!" I cried, "O, Phantom friend! Do you say these nights will end?
Tell me truly, is there hope still for this babe I so adore?"
Then it foretold nights unbroken, when those wails would go unspoken,
When I would not be awoken. "Never, Phantom? Are you sure?"
Quoth the Spirit, "Nevermore."

And on spoke the ghostly Seer, bidding me to have good cheer,
Yet it warned me of the Fate that for all parents lies in store.
"This babe will one day yearn for knowledge; he will venture off to college,
And 'tis then you will acknowledge that you miss those nights of yore.
Yes, you'll miss these hours awake upon the Night's Plutonian shore."

"Ha!" quoth Mama, "Nevermore!"

Kate Haas publishes Miranda, a 'zine about motherhood and other adventures. Her essays have appeared in Brain, Child, Babble, Hip Mama and the Toronto Star. This poem appeared first, in a somewhat different form, in Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers.

bad momma inda 8-5-9

BY BETH TRUSLEY

I was about to cut my husband and abuse my kids;
they be messin' with the Tuppaware and lost the lids.
Then I caught my husband doin' dishes over the sink;
it made me count to 10, kept me out the clink.

That H1N1, some call it swine flu;
both kids caught it, they be home from schoo'.
So, the kids all sick, they be down in bed;
I be takin' a break, guzzlin' down the red.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Husband came in with the pimp hand strong;
'cause he be drinkin' bourbon, out way too long.
Came in with the glitter all over his shirt;
say he didn’t know that peepin' at the stripper hurt.

Spent the afternoon drinkin' on the bar stool;
now I'm waitin' with the other parents in the carpool.
Kids bum-rush the car, yappin' 'bout they day;
now I'm  prayin' we get home, no fuzz along the way.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Temporarily solo, Boo away on bidnuss;
dog barkin', kids screamin', and I'm thinkin' F--- THIS!
Unwrapped, about to snap, howlin' at da moon;
I swallow a Valium -- altered state be here soon.

Flashforward: dirty knees from scrubbin' the flo';
cussin' at the dog, whose dirty paws on the door.
Kids come in to help while kissin' my cheek;
the flo' don't matta none, not gonna lose sleep.

Bad Momma inda 8-5-9,
I'm bad but I ain't done time.
I like to talk a little smack and catch a buzz,
but I ain't been busted by the damn ole fuzz.

Check it.

Ch-ch-check it.

Word.

Beth Trusley is the momma of two young'uns and works as an Assistant Property Supervisor for about a dozen apartment communities in Lexington, KY. She can't really say which is more entertaining: raising her kids or watchin' over grown ups who live in the rental properties. (Think Peyton Place on steroids.) When Beth is not working, she enjoys packin' heat, Modelos, and the occasional Camel. She can be reached at: btrusley@gmail.com.

your first breath

BY ADAM HUGHES

Amniotic exhale,
shock of open air on
quickly drying skin,
placental home left
behind in favor of life
outside uterine walls.

I had spent the last
hour and a half staring
at the purple crown
of your head, wondering
if the rest of you
would be the color
of communion wine.
But I missed

your first post-natal
moments because I was busy
throwing up.

Adam Hughes is a writer and pastor from Lancaster, Ohio. He is a graduate of Ohio Christian University and his poety has appeared in several online and print journals, including: The Houston Literary Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Boston Literary Magazine, and Gloom Cupboard. He also sits on the editorial board for Triggerfish Critical Review. He enjoys being outside, reading, and spending time with his wife and infant daughter. He can be reached at tatelestai@yahoo.com.

blonde suburban doppelganger

BY KATHRYN A. HIGGINS

When to the silver SUV I schlepped,
pushing a cart that veered to the left,
I reached for keys which I usually kept
hooked to my bag to foil theft.

I pushed the button, heard the chirp;
although a distance it seemed to cross.
I called to my son, the little twerp,
and began unloading milk and sauce.

"Mom," said Matthew with concern,
a luxury for which I had no time.
"Get in the car!" I snapped in turn,
and to my door I bent to climb.

I went to put key in ignition,
when all at once I felt a chill;
a horrible lack of recognition
of seat, of cup, of car, of nil!

"Where's my stuff?" I asked my boy,
who'd climbed uncertainly in the back.
"I do not appreciate this decoy.
My dirty towel? My bills? My snack?"

"Mom," he tried again; I turned
to see what new crime he contemplated.
But when I saw the back I learned,
and from fault he was then exculpated.

This gleaming, shiny, silver jeep,
with tidy mug and Burberry scarf,
did not match at all my heap --
festooned with garbage, flecked with barf.

Christened by my kids and me,
with dirt and gum and single socks,
my car just simply could not be
this one that held designer frocks.

"Hush!" I said now that I knew
we were in the wrong SUV;
would this one's owner take mine in lieu,
knowing what I did of me?

My senses were on combat high
as I reviewed our situation --
how we got in there and why;
I prepared for our evacuation.

Then I saw my old jalopy
facing hers, as if a mirror
had found a twin, just not as sloppy --
cleaner, neater, richer, dearer.

I'll take her car, I paused to think,
and trade in for a better life;
I'll bag my husband and my shrink
and be a better sort of wife.

Yes, I'll take it and I'll flee
away from my suburban jailors:
husband, housework, children three,
laundry, cooking, coupon-mailers.

I flipped the visor mirror and saw
the doppelganger wanna-be,
a disheveled blonde with frowning maw --
an evil, tired side of me.

I slumped back in her leather seat,
noticed her Gucci sunglasses there;
imagined her country club so neat --
God, we'd feel like asses there.

Swaddled in her premium automobile,
I was o'ertaken by daydreams of:
Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels,
lunches at the Golden Dove.

Benefits aboard a yacht,
decked out in Dolce and Gabbana;
"Some little nothing I just bought,"
sipping Cristal with Ivana.

In this reverie I sat
in a sort of mental attack,
when "Mom" I heard again from Matt --
who'd been so quiet in the back.

I turned to see my little son,
who looked at me with eyes so wide --
my innocent and trusting one,
not knowing I was Mr. Hyde.

I realized then that no matter how pampered,
filled with serenity and joy,
my doppelganger's life was hampered
by lack of my kids -- girls and boy.

If she had kids, and so she did
according to her decorations,
despite their brilliance, mine outbid
them in winning my adorations.

I could not make the trade, I sighed;
"Let's Go!" I said to my little Pea,
when coming out of the store I spied
a thinner replica of me.

"Get out!" I hissed and grabbed the food
and toilet paper by the load;
I snatched the cart, and Matt I shooed
out of the car and down the road.

Again my key, my car chirped back;
I hustled my little boy inside.
He found his book, his toy, his snack;
and there he waited while I spied.

My double came and claimed her car,
no inkling did she have of me;
despite the door I left ajar
and my lost can of Pepsi Free.

Tossing her designer purse,
she mounted her shiny, silver throne.
I ducked and hissed a little curse,
as my steering wheel hit my bone.

She drove off talking on her phone
about exciting things no doubt.
I said to Matthew: "Let’s go home"
and "Behave or you'll get a timeout."

Filled with a newfound thankfulness, I drove
home to my modest little dwelling;
and with new eagerness I strove
to find my children without yelling.

"Come and give your mom a hug!"
I said to urchins one, two, three.
"Wait -- what have you done to the rug?"
And so ended our brief jubilee.

Kathryn A. Higgins is writer and mom living with her two children in Connecticut. She recently received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her publishing credits include: McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Real Simple Magazine, health.com, Sanskrit, farmhousemagazine.com, Whatever, and Musings; she has also written a regular column for the Connecticut Post, as well as features for various newspapers, and is a reader for the Paris Review. You can reach her at: kathrynahiggins@aol.com.