Forward Motion

by Renee Cronley
 
 
they took steps to retire archaic narratives 
reducing their existence to personal property
demure dames donning gloves and holding fans
corsets and legislative chastity belts worn tight
by fashion, by design—but ill-suited for combat 
 
with stakes higher than the battle of the ballot
ladies lacing leather boots marched as matriarchs   
demanding democratic birthright
violating social norms with reforms
 
governments exploited feminine status
keeping demonstrations submissive and silent 
debating suffrage bills but never passing them
threading the needle to cease ‘ladylike’ tactics 
then stitching them as irrational and illogical
 
inhumanly imprisoned and grisly forced-fed
denied designation as political prisoners 
cruelly satirized and shamed by the press
to weaken resolve with psychological duress
 
they trudged through hassles and heckles
iron-willed but soaked to their socks 
in a downpour of institutional misogyny
arousing passionate dialogue with activism
breaking barriers and fighting for freedom


* * * * *

Renee Cronley is a writer from Manitoba. She studied psychology and English at Brandon University and nursing at Assiniboine Community College. Having stepped away from nursing to prioritize her children, she has been channeling her knowledge and experiences into a poetry book about nursing burnout. Her work appears in Chestnut Review, Off Topic, Love Letters to Poe, Weird Little Worlds, Black Spot Books, and several other anthologies and literary magazines.  
Renee can be found at https://www.reneecronley.com/ 

 

Dear expectations

by Stuti Jain


You became a drug
The monster under the floorboards.
The friend i would crawl through
Windows to meet.

 

Barriers

by Stuti Jain


We are all 
From the same world
But sometimes I think I'm on an iceberg
Watching everyone else float away
I am only visible when it suits them.


I am not truly in any world
I live in the rim of the doorframe
Light bursting from outside,
Holding hands with the darkness
I am somewhere between everything and nothing
Because the door won’t open.

When Nature Comes Knocking

by Brittany Studer


There’s a knock at my door in the pouring rain
My petals open to the tongue of a bee
Birds sing in my head the same tune I’ve known
Since my first time ocean waves rushed in

I open the door and you’re standing there soaked
Beneath the earth beats the tingle of life
You rush into my roots like food from the sun
And I can’t help but bend to your light


* * * * *

Brittany Studer was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and many of her poems are steeped in imagery using elements found in nature. She started writing poetry in 2003 and finds the creative process deeply therapeutic. Brittany lives in Oregon with her husband and two young boys.

The Return of Her

by Brittany Studer


She lay dormant an entire year
The baby’s cries,
The baby’s needs.

Then, the river flowed again,
Calling her to wake.

She did not want to wake at first,
To shed her mother-skin.

But beneath there lay
A woman, almost forgotten.

She lay dormant an entire year

Until…

Her cries,
Her needs,
Burst forth in ecstatic thrill.


* * * * *

Brittany Studer was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and many of her poems are steeped in imagery using elements found in nature. She started writing poetry in 2003 and finds the creative process deeply therapeutic. Brittany lives in Oregon with her husband and two young boys.

 

This month an additional Moon Prize, the 140^th, goes to Huina Zheng's compelling story "Home Renovation."

 

Home Renovation

by Huina Zheng

Setting out towards our old house with Sheng and Jun today, I think about a proposal from six months ago. Jun suggested renovating the two-story red brick building with a courtyard to make it more comfortable for us and to better accommodate Sheng, who has mobility issues. Honestly, I am not opposed to the idea of living together again, especially since I was the one who forgave Sheng for leaving us when Jun was just a child.

The old house, I note, is completely transformed—the courtyard now boasts artificial hills, flowing water, and a pond stocked with koi; the ground floor is primarily occupied by Sheng’s bedroom and shared spaces, while the upper floor contains bedrooms for Jun and me.

Jun, Sheng, and the designer thoroughly discussed the details of the renovation, and Jun hinted that they had prepared a surprise for me. I think maybe they have finally come to appreciate the sacrifices I’ve made and the effort I’ve put in. After Sheng left us for another woman, I raised Jun on my own. Two years ago, the hospital called Jun and told him his father had become paralyzed from the waist down and needed care. That woman disappeared. Jun, overwhelmed with his job, placed his father in a nursing home. However, due to Sheng’s frequent outbursts, Jun was forced to bring him back to our old home. After cycling through four nurses in just two months due to Sheng’s difficult behavior, I couldn’t stand by and watch my son struggle with the stress of caring for his father. So, I took over, sacrificing my freedom and my passion for dance to provide full-time care. I hope they’ve set aside a large room for me with one mirrored wall, spacious enough for dancing. I’ve even packed a dance outfit and shoes in my handbag, ready to revive my long-missed dance routines as soon as I can. It would truly be a wonderful surprise. It is, after all, my lifelong passion—I used to dance for hours a day—though I don’t remember the last time I did it.

I vow to myself: If they have transformed a room into a dance studio for me, I will stay and care for Sheng indefinitely. Even if Sheng scolds and curses every day, I will never leave him. I will remind myself that Jun hopes we could live together as a family. I will endure his tantrums, like when he throws his plate on the floor if he dislikes the food, his biting sarcastic remarks, and his domineering commands. Next year, Jun will marry his girlfriend Lan; we will live together. I will help take care of our future grandchildren, and I’ll make pumpkin cakes with them, letting them stand on stools to mash the steamed pumpkin, and after frying, Sheng will sprinkle sesame seeds on the pumpkin cakes. We will not remarry, but I will continue to care for him until the end.

We walk into the old house. The dining room is spacious, furnished with a solid black-glazed wooden table, adjacent to Sheng’s personal suite, which includes a lounge area and a card and chess entertainment space. The bathroom is designed with a lowered washbasin to accommodate Sheng’s needs. At the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, there was a Chinese-style villa crafted for the cat. On the second floor, Jun and Lan’s room features a modern, double-height design; the lower level is a lounge area, and a few steps up leads to a spacious, separate office area. Then, I am led to my room—a simple, small space with just a bed and essential furniture. Jun points to a dance poster hanging above the bed, telling me this is the surprise they’ve prepared for me. They’ve also prepared an even bigger “surprise”—a washing and drying machine set up in the room, for my convenience in continuing the laundry.

I open my handbag, take out the dance outfit and shoes I’ve prepared, and gaze at them. Then, I realize I don’t have to keep my vow, feeling an unprecedented sense of relief.

* * * * *

Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. She’s also an editor at Bewildering Stories. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her husband and daughter.

 

On this month's full moon, the 139th Moon Prize goes to Alexis Rhone Fancher's stunning poem "Don't Try."


Don’t Try

by Alexis Rhone Fancher


Since my son died of cancer in 2007
I find funerals hard to attend.
Unless it’s family, I make an excuse,
although there is none, really.
I especially regret not attending Paul’s funeral in 2016,
and Molly’s last year after her long decline,
but the post-burial depression holds me captive.
After an insomniac night or two,
the kind part of me gives the selfish one a pass.
When I see Molly’s widower,
I pretend he doesn’t know I wasn’t there.
There were close to 300 mourners.
If he asks, one day, apropos of nothing,
I’ll most likely tell him I couldn’t get out of bed.
Yesterday, I drove all over Green Hills Memorial Park,
where Bukowski is buried.
Don’t Try is written on his gravestone, above a silhouette
of a pugilist, bookended by birth and death dates.
We inhabit the same zip code.
Days before Paul died, he called me, manic, rambled for an hour.
Big plans, he said. I’m moving back to Paris in the fall.
When he showed up at my party, weeks before,
people thought he was homeless, walked in off the street.
Paul played us Russian love songs on his guitar.
Here are the photos. He looks bloated. Lost.
Two weeks later he was dead.
I’ve considered Paul’s solution,
but the end is coming swiftly enough.
Tonight the dude across the street is blasting bad ‘80s rock.
It’s mid-July, and the sun stays long in the sky.

For Gerald Locklin


* * * * *

"Don't Try" was first published in Chiron Review.

Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily, Plume, Tinderbox, Cleaver, Diode, The American Journal of Poetry, Spillway, Nashville Review, Poetry East, Gargoyle, and elsewhere. She’s authored ten poetry collections, most recently, Triggered, 2023 (MacQueen’s Publishing); Brazen, 2023 (NYQ Books); and Duets, (2022) an illustrated, ekphrastic chapbook collaboration with poet Cynthia Atkins, published by Harbor Editions. Alexis’s photographs are featured worldwide including the covers of The Pedestal Magazine, Witness, Heyday, Pithead Chapel, and The Mas Tequila Review. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, you can find her at: www.alexisrhonefancher.com