Photograph by Amanda O’Donoughue

when I was brave,

I beat a flutter-tempo against the skin drum

of my mother’s scuppernong belly,

me inside, the translucent fruit, mellowing

from the early tartness at the first-of-season.

When I was five

and my brother was brave,

our mother would rest half a tumbler of watered wine

on the firmness of her roundness

that pressed against breasts

and bladder and lungs,

drinking the red, sipping it like jewels,

laughing at the glass balancing on its own there.

In my fourth decade, I am brave all over again,

and I drink a quarter glass in my turn,

and though the midwife says “Don’t tell me” when I do,

she admits wine is a human thing.

Red wine and chocolate for longevity,

for craving’s satisfaction, for courage and endorphins.

Grapes split on teeth in summer,

but press to feet in their season—

a purple flow that starts with seeds,

comes to lips, to darkness, then light—

the pulp and flesh becoming over time.

SAMARA GOLABUK is a two-time Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared in Strong Verse, Peacock Journal, The Whistling Fire, 5×5, and others. She has two children, works in communications and marketing, has recently returned to university to complete her BA in Creative Writing, and is a long-time member of The Scribe Tribe, a weekly poetry writing and workshop group.

AMANDA O’DONOUGHUE is a portrait photographer living in Tallahassee, FL. She spends her days raising her two young sons and exploring the abundant natural resources that North Central Florida has to offer. She has extensive experience with documentary birth photography, mother & child fine art portraiture, and commercial work. More at www.amandaodonoughuephotography.com or at her personal project shedding light on post-partum depression, www.partum.me.

Illustration by Ashwin Pandya

That was the summer of infernal heat, and every day Alice Evers wore an annoying hat with tangled primroses spilling pink and yellow down her back. So, we chased her and catcalled and threw brown pebbles and spitballs at her head and missed and did it all over again until Bobby Jackson blew it clean off her head with a rock from his slingshot. Then we all ran and laughed and even when we saw her lying on the ground with that strange red blistering her ear, we still laughed and laughed and said she shouldn’t have worn that hat, but Amy got mad and walked Alice home and then all our moms knew everything about it. Of course, then we were all mad at Amy. All summer long we were mad at Amy while we hoed the tomatoes and weeded zinnias and washed cars and all the other stupid stupid stupid chores that were all Amy’s fault. So we were grounded and punished and tired of the heat, and when August started, we chafed and scratched in our damp night clothes, but Bobby would wake us after midnight by whispering at our windows, trying and trying to get us to come out to the football field to drink beer, but we were all scared of our fathers and tired of being grounded and cleaning the garage when it didn’t need cleaning again, so we rolled over toward our walls and pretended we didn’t hear him even when his voice sounded tired and sad and not at all angry—just hurt. Then it was time to buy school clothes, and we forgot about Bobby and the beer and the football field and even Amy as we argued with our mothers and fathers over the color of backpacks and composition books and pens. Fall breezes lofted away the heat and apples ripened and our thoughts were full of essays and history and the value of x and even Amy was forgiven her sins and Bobby was walking Alice to classes and whatever had hinged on that white-hot day disappeared like the first flakes of snow testing their strength against the heat of our tongues.

W. E. PASQUINI’s poetry has appeared in Cheat River Review, Cider Press Review, and Fourth River, among others. Pasquini has been nominated for a Pushcart and has been a finalist in various book and chapbook competitions including: New Rivers Press’s MVP; Concrete Wolf Poetry Contest; and Frost Place Competition. Pasquini completed an MFA in creative writing and studied film at the University of South Florida in Tampa, Florida.

ASHWIN PANDYA is a sketch-artist and illustrator, whose work has graced many book-covers. Acknowledged for his digital art as well as musical compositions, Ashwin Pandya can sketch given any situation, description or character. You can visit his website here.

Photograph by Jim Richards

Walking around

the yard in the sun

looking at birds

after the long winter,

selfish and dark,

mourning your loss.

The usual: thrush,

starling, chickadee,

pine siskin with

dull yellow waking

on its wings. You

should be with me.

The sound of sod

drying out, a slow

sizzle. A zephyr.

I close my eyes so

my face will feel it.

I should see you

when I open them.

The quaking aspen’s

bare branches cleave

equinox blue. A rabbit

disappears beneath

that hideous old spruce.

JIM RICHARDS’ poems have been nominated for Best New Poets 2015, two Pushcart Prizes, and have appeared recently in Prairie Schooner, South Carolina Review, Juked, Comstock Review, Poet Lore, and Texas Review, among others. He lives in eastern Idaho’s Snake River valley, and in 2013 he received a fellowship from the Idaho Commission on the Arts. To read more of his work visit www.jim-richards.com.