The road is a seductive path carved through mountains, prairies, towns and cities. It beckons to places unknown, encouraging exploration with whispered promises of adventure. Whatever the stated purpose, a road trip often becomes more about the journey than the destination – offering new perspectives that broaden our sense of place and of who we are. On the road, the vastness and diversity of this land we call home spools out slowly through the rhythmic spin of tires on concrete. And infinite configurations of sky, colors, and contours unveil a raw, wondrous beauty.
Read moreLooking at Sinai
Ghent, NY, 2018
In twelve years, I will be 37; the same age my mother was when she had me. Very nearly the same age my grandmother was when she had my mother. I was my mother’s first, she was her mother’s last.
Last night, I dreamed of my own child. A little one, born with stubble teeth in red gums. I dream I am deeply in love with this child, and I dream I have not the slightest idea of what’s happening. I dream myself in vagueness. There’s another parent of this child in my dream, an old boyfriend. He is unquestionably father to our child. He is aware–of the baby, of me. In my dream, I know only that this beautiful child is ours, and that it is odd our child has teeth the day it is born.
Read moreDwelling
My mother handed me the dusty, sticky box. It was especially sticky at the edges where its covering was peeling off, 1970s-era contact paper, brown-and-white gingham. The box was an old file-card container, made to hold 4" x 6" cards, proudly proclaiming on its bottom: Made in the USA. The box held my childhood postcard collection, which had been out of my possession for almost 20 years. It hadn't come to college with me, nor to the five Boston-area apartments I'd lived in since college. But there I was–a married, home-owning, Ph.D.-holding, mother of a four-year-old–pleased that the box still made the same noise upon opening. The sound wasn't the eerie squeaking of un-oiled hinges, but the harsh popping of stuck metal being forced to unstick. It was a small explosion in the hands.
Read moreCry the Beloved Earth
image by Annie Spratt
Go, go, say it on the mountain, she said
Grown weary from the cry, go on, she said—
Before it all disappears.
Read moreStarlings in Flight
image by Nicholas Bartos
It’s gray, the winter landscape along the power line right-of-way offering little of interest. The landscape mirrors my somber mood: sepia-washed acres of scrubby thorns, flat grasses, milkweed husks. The cold, moist air settles heavily. A flash of scarlet crosses the path ahead, a male cardinal whose coat pops. Just as quickly he’s gone.
Read moreNew Country
In the days when my Aunt Olenka opened her door to strangers, a single refrain shaped her lips more than any other: “No, no. It's Dari-oos.” My cousin was a musical prodigy at age eleven, and by the time he was thirteen, his mother was keen on letting all of New York City know it. My mother and younger brother Marek and I were living in Olenka's apartment at the time, along with my Aunt Irene. It had been nearly a year since I'd lost my hearing and yet the world I found myself in was still new, undefinable in the old way, and full of mystery and surprise where once all things had been ordinary. I was twelve years old. It's hard to say if my perception would have changed in some ways regardless of the accident and my subsequent deafness; the world opens up to people at different times in different ways. I'm on the brink now of new possibilities, as a candidate for cochlear implants. How far technology has advanced in just over thirty years.
Read moreLa Chaleur
Image by Rukhsar Palla
neighborhoods
emphasis on the neighborhoods
no silver creek country club, no evergreen gated communities
not even Seattle’s Cap Hill roads
no drunkards
no flannels, just hijabs
just sweat, the sun, and our driver.
Read moreEaster
At our home in central Maine it snows on Black Saturday, the day Jesus was laid in the tomb. April 19, and wet snow falls on the hard mud of our driveway, on the mounds of dirty snow remaining at the edges of the lawn. I buy jelly beans and pink fists of tulips in a plastic tub at the grocery store and put them on the kitchen table. From the attic, I drag down ragged straw baskets. The head gasket in my son’s old Volvo is failing, the “needs service” light on all the way from Boston, but they arrive, the baby and the toddler unbuckled from car seats, diapers wet.
Read moreFox Harbor
Image by Chantal/herprettybravesoul
This is the most you’ve ever been
a child. Once there was sand,
thick saltwater paste on legs
capable of anything; then, later
your body inside a lantern
waiting for claps of resurrection—
Read moreAfterlight and Refraction
Image by Annie Spratt
… I try to be okay living
in the blur, not recalling illuminations rarely
glimpsed on this side, until that day, moment,
a covey of hands, like willow branches, bend
down to take in me what is not solid, unbowed.
Read moreTo Love and Other Poems
Image by Hanne Hoft Bidtnes
Tangled skeleton flowers
frozen mud
The sound of the train
and the taste of stars when I turn
my head in the bare field at night
and open my mouth
Read moreMoments
filled with chatter, a way of prolonging
the inevitable good night. Good
bye. No, thanks.
Just friends.
Moments husked and blown. Leisure has its way
with poor timing.
Read moreThe Beauty of Aging in a Mexican Home
Carefully, she massaged Amá’s delicate skin with her fingers with a delicate undulation. Amá’s skin resembled a pink baby salamander, transparent enough to see the blue blood in each vein. Vaseline lubricated each circular stroke, making it easy to palm each muscle. Mom took great care not to dig too deep and create a bruise. The slightest l slip of a finger could cause microscopic fissures beneath the skin’s surface that could last for weeks. With each stroke down Amá’s feeble body and drawn legs, an overwhelming sense of service filled Mom’s heart. Every few moments, she would look up to check for a hint of discomfort. Amá often stared back blankly, yet the deep wrinkles around her eyes revealed an autobiographical roadmap of fortitude and benevolence. A haze had settled on her beautiful canela eyes and seeped into her mind. Amá was often in a trance, in and out of reality, and sometimes returned to infancy. We could feel her despair in those moments. Other nights, we could hear it. Twice a week, mom would pull Amá’s legs down, away from her chest, to fight the atrophy. Amá howled with pain as Mom stretched each ligament, forcing them to move like a resistant rubber band. I would hide in my room and cry. I sometimes still hear her in my sleep.
Read morePANDEMIX
A new mix featuring women musicians to help get you through. 💛
Including Black Belt Eagle Scout, Tanukichan, Hand Habits, Soccer Mommy, Rozi Plain, Daughter of Swords, Land of Talk, Sharon Van Etten, WILSEN, Grouper, Julia Holter, Alice Boman, Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, Mountain Man, Middle Kids, Brittany Howard, Waxahatchee, and Kim Deal Music!
Makeover
Image by Priscilla Du Preez
My mother craned over her steering wheel and narrowed her eyes at the students trudging across the school crosswalk. “That's not your friend Melody, is it?” Melody was skinny as a wraith in ripped, black clothes, and her scalp shone through the outgrowth of hair on her shaved head. A silver ring glinted in her septum.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Yes, mom. And we haven't been friends since fifth grade.”
“Maybe for the best,” she said.
Read moreSupport Women & Nonbinary Authors! Buy a book!
In the footsteps of publications we admire, the editors at Cordella Magazine are putting together this list of late 2019 and 2020 poetry titles and novels written by women-identifying and nonbinary authors. We want to support our community and understand that this a tough time to launch books. If you'd like to be included or want to recommend an author or book, please email cate@cordella.org with the author's name, book title, press, pub date, and a link (if available). It will be ongoing so please feel free to reach out even if you see this post a bit late. Thanks!
Read moreRumored Animal
Image by Thierry Meier
Absolution
Image by Gaelle Marcel
“Choose a place where you won’t do harm–yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.” —E.M.Forster, A Room with a View
Read moreUltralight
Image by Joanne Francis
Enlightened by loss we remove the handles
from toothbrushes to take every last ounce
of weight off our backs, to ease the days
spent on trails that are thousands of miles long . . .
Read moreThree Poems
They’re basking in the newborn star
Glitter gluttons stealing shine
Unlikely gift of Shadow—Glow
and she is mine
Read more