Kintsugi by Beth Copeland (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

Kintsugi
by Beth Copeland

Mother’s Japanese friends
send cards she forgets

to open—prints of blond
birds flying

over turquoise waves, pine branches
burdened with snow. Her mailbox,

stuffed with letters
and junk. I slice

into an envelope and pluck a handwritten
note from Kinko-san: I have not heard

from you. I am worried. You are so
old. Mother snorts, She’s

almost as old as I am!
and we laugh

at what’s lost
in translation. She forgets bills,

to brush her teeth or swallow
her thyroid pills and Lipitor

but remembers Kinko-san
from long ago. Should I write to say you’re

okay? I’ll do it
later, but she won’t. She stares

at a maple for hours when I’m
not here, her hair a corona

of uncombed
dandelion seeds. Should I

laugh or cry? Like a broken
bowl mended with molten

gold, she’s more
beautiful than before. I hold

her in the heart
of my heart

where she’s whole.

Originally published in the author’s collection, Blue Honey, recipient of the 2017 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, The Broadkill River Press, 2017. 

PHOTO: Teacup with gold streaks exhibiting Kintsugi repair (Vlad islavovich, photographer). Kintsugi celebrates breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I wrote “Kintsugi” when my mother was in an assisted living home because she had short-term memory loss. She would forget to check her mail, and one day we found a card from Kinko-san, a woman she knew when she and my father were serving as missionaries in Japan during the 1950s. She and Kinko-san had corresponded with each other for 50 years.

PHOTO: The author with her mother Louise, her older sister Joy, and Kinko-san and her family on the occasion of Kinko-san’s son’s first birthday.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Beth Copeland is the author of Selfie with Cherry (Glass Lyre Press, 2022); Blue Honey, 2017 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize winner; Transcendental Telemarketer (BlazeVOX, 2012); and Traveling through Glass, 1999 Bright Hill Press Poetry Book Award winner. Shibori Blue: Thirty-six Views of The Peak, a collection of her original photographs and poems, is forthcoming from Redhawk Press.

When Wounds Don’t Heal by Shelly Blankman (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

When Wounds Don’t Heal
by Shelly Blankman

I remember spending muggy summer afternoons on her porch, slurping fresh, fuzzy peaches, their sweet juices dripping down our chins. We’d giggle as we picked shredded napkins off our sticky fingers. Those were the times Mom laughed—when she could treasure the gentle breath of summer breezes wafting through the lilacs she so loved. We didn’t have many moments like that together—just she and I. The joys of life had been siphoned out of her long before I came along. She mostly lived in a cell of silent anger, and when her words spilled out, they were often like paper cuts—painful and deep.

Mom’s chilling childhood memories had cracked her own mirror of life. She had witnessed her mama day after day scrub the porch while neighbors sneered dirty Jew. Her mama could clean the porch but not wash off the stain of their laughter. She dared not shed tears or show fear. As a child, her mama had been the lone Holocaust survivor in a family of eight. She’d escaped to America knowing no one, learning early that without the armor of family, only silence could keep her safe. Hitler’s roaches had burrowed in every corner of the country. When my mom was told to stand in front of her class to show what a Jew nose looked like, she obeyed. Girls would tease her for having only two dresses, and she said nothing. Once she tried to collect money from a neighbor for the Red Cross. The neighbor snapped Just like a Jew and slammed the door in her face. Wound after wound after wound. And the deepest wound of all—the death of her baby brother because her mama couldn’t afford medical care to save him.

How do you fix a broken mirror? How do you pick up shards of glass without bleeding? In America, Mom and her brothers were raised in abject poverty and still considered rich Jews. Years and years of invisible tears. Shards still slicing open every wound of Mom’s childhood, suctioning the strength she needed to care for her family. How could she survive?

She found comfort in cats. She found love in cats. Toward the end of her life, her brain was scavenged by the scarab beetles of Alzheimer’s. She didn’t even know what a cat was. Her eyes were open, but empty until the day she died.

I never mourned her death. I mourn how she lived.

IMAGE: Lilac branch, digital art by Nadezhda Galimova.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This was probably the most difficult poem I’ve ever written. My mother had a difficult life, and I didn’t realize until my adult years about the impact the Holocaust had on survivors and following generations. I wanted to show her struggles and strengths, and her history was very much a part of that. I wanted to share all that was missing in her life, because she deserved more than that. She didn’t have the voice to tell her story. But I do.

PHOTO: The author (second from left) with her mother and siblings in Baltimore, Maryland (1956).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Shelly Blankman lives in Columbia, Maryland, with her husband of 43 years. They have two sons, Richard and Joshua, who live in New York and Texas, respectively. They have filled their empty nest with four rescue cats and a dog. Richard and Joshua surprised Shelly with the publication of her first book of poetry, Pumpkinhead. Her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Open Door Magazine, among other publications

Solitaire by Ruth Bavetta (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

Solitaire
by Ruth Bavetta

The leaves of Tuesday will be gone by three
to their life without shadows.
My mother shuffles from room to room.
Teacups are soon empty.

In her life without shadows,
my mother searches for her keys.
Her teacup is soon empty.
The hanging chimes are still.

My mother searches for her keys,
but they’ve been gone for years.
The hanging chimes are still.
In an old house there is no air,

it’s been gone for years.
Four birds have hit the glass this fall.
Near an old house there is no air,
there is no rising of new grass.

Four birds have hit the glass this fall.
My mother shuffles from room to room.
There is no rising of new grass.
The leaves of Tuesday will be gone by three.

Previously published in the author’s collection, No Longer at This Address.

PAINTING: Mystic Allegory or Tea by Maurice Denis (1892).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem appears in my book No Longer at This Address, which is dedicated to my mother and contains many poems chronicling her descent into dementia. It’s a pantoum, a form I find works well to picture the obsession and repetition that go hand and hand with dementia.

PHOTO: The author as a child with her mother in Yosemite National Park (California).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in Rattle, North American Review, Nimrod, Rhino, Tar River Review, Slant, Atlanta Review, as well as many others, and are included in several anthologies. Her five books are available on Amazon, including her latest, Selected Poems.

Alzheimer’s Baby by Daniel McGinn (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

Alzheimer’s Baby
by Daniel McGinn

When I visited my mother
in the Alzheimer’s ward she didn’t know my name.

She had a few pictures on the wall.
One was a print from a painting of the Gerber baby.

It looked like a promotional item from the 1920s.
My mother pointed at the baby and whispered, That’s me.

I didn’t know this portrait hung in her childhood bedroom.
If my brain goes, I won’t know who I am, just what remains.

She stared out of her wheelchair, didn’t move
or speak much, only finding a few words at a time.

Most of her words had left her. When I was leaving
I asked my mother if I could kiss her.

I was a stranger. I didn’t want to startle her.
She recognized me, for a moment.

In a whisper she said, You’re my son.
I kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye.

IMAGE: Drawing of the original Gerber baby, introduced in 1928 by Gerber Products Company.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Daniel McGinn’s work has appeared in Silver Birch Press, The MacGuffin, Nerve Cowboy, Spillway, Misfit, Meat For Tea, and Anti-Heroin Chic, along with numerous other magazines and anthologies. His most recent chapbook, Drowning the Boy, won the James Tate Poetry Prize for 2021 and was published by SurVision in Dublin Ireland. Fill Me With Birds, a free verse conversation written with Scott Ferry was published by Meat For Tea in February 2024.

Cinnamon & Myrrh by Lindsey Martin-Bowen (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Cinnamon & Myrrh
by Lindsey Martin-Bowen

So healing, Cinnamon. That exotic
spice from the East* sweetens coffee
& tea. Its tartness tangles my tongue,
clears my throat, & lifts my spirits,
especially when I visit the Greek Isles,
where at dawn, I feast on baklava,
rich with cinnamon, almonds, &
walnuts drenched in sugar boiled with
cinnamon sticks into a thick syrup.

At dinner, cinnamon, nutmeg, garlic
& parsley merge in moussaka, and
more cinnamon’s sprinkled atop
béchamel sauce. I savor it while I
sit in an outdoor café on a bridge
between clay and star shine, healing
my bluesy wounds until my cell phone
brays, and I learn my cousin died:
Alzheimer’s—since she was 63.
          Dead at 67.

I’d planned to ask her to celebrate
with me after she eluded Death one more
day. Tonight, cinnamon isn’t enough*:
          I need Myrrh.

Lindsey Martin-Bowen© 2023 

*Chinese writings mentioned true Cinnamon (Cinnamomum zeylanicum) as early as 2800 BC. Also native to Sri Lanka, India and Myanmar, it was imported  to Egypt in 2000 BC. Medieval physicians treated sore throats, coughing, and hoarseness with cinnamon.

PHOTO: Baklava with cinnamon stick by Saschanti.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Even before I read Philip Lee Williams’s delightful poem, “Cinnamon Toast,” referenced in the SPICES & SEASONINGS Call for Submissions, I intended to write about Cinnamon, my favorite spice, often used not solely in desserts, such as baklava, but in several Greek entries, which I enjoy cooking and baking. Even though I knew the use of the spice originated in the Far East, I planned to research its history, too. Then, a few hours after receiving the prompt, I learned one of my cousins lost her battle with Alzheimer’s shortly after midnight (CDT) on August 20, 2023. This rattled me. She was the daughter of my mother’s closest sister, who was also my godmother. The event still wove its way through my mind and spewed out into this poem, which began with my relationship with cinnamon.¶ My cousin was young when the Alzheimer’s was discovered—and for most of my family, young when she died. I’m unsure if this poem hints at my fears of contacting that dreadful disease, but I do. Each time I forget a name, I fear I may be in its early stages. (I may be overreacting. To my knowledge, no other relatives have suffered with Alzheimer’s—on either side of my family.) Nevertheless, that disease is a vicious killer—stealing a victim’s personality and cognitive skills while it assaults the body. For me, the contrast between delightful cinnamon and my cousin’s death evokes strong feelings.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Pushcart and Pulitzer nominee Lindsey Martin-Bowen’s fifth poetry collection (and first hardback edition) The BOOK of FRENZIES was released in 2022 by Pierian Springs Press. Her next, CASHING Checks with Jim Morrison was released by Redbat Books in October 2023.. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, her fourth collection Where Water Meets the Rock (39 West Press 2017) contains a poem named an Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest’s 85th Contest. Her third collection, CROSSING KANSAS with Jim Morrison, won Kansas Authors Club’s 2017 “Looks Like a Million” Contest and was a finalist in the QuillsEdge Press 2015-2016 Contest. Her Inside Virgil’s Garage (Chatter House) was a runner-up in the 2015 Nelson Poetry Book Award and contains a poem nominated for a Pushcart Prize. The Kansas City Star (McClatchy Newspapers) named her Standing on the Edge of the World (Woodley Press) one of Ten Top Poetry Books of 2008. Her poems have appeared in New Letters, I-70 Review, Thorny Locust, Flint Hills Review, Silver Birch Press, Amethyst Arsenic, Coal City Review, Phantom Drift, Ekphrastic Review (Egyptian Challenge), The Same, Tittynope Zine, Bare Root Review, Rockhurst Review, Black Bear Review, 15 anthologies, and other lit zines. Three of her seven novels have been published. Poetry remains her way of singing. She taught writing and literature at UMKC for 18 years, MCC-Longview, and teaches Criminal Law, Criminal Procedure, and other criminal justice classes for Blue Mountain Community College, Pendleton, Oregon. Visit her on Facebook.

Good News by Evie Groch (ONE GOOD MEMORY Series)

Good News
by Evie Groch

Every Sunday, a one-hour visit
one hour to watch her wrestle with truth
one hour to convince her she is wrong
to listen to her fears, fail again to reassure

Where are my parents, she asks,
she, a woman in her eighties.
Will they be here soon?
I need to get dressed; help me please.
What time are they coming?
I’ll need to leave.

Mom, you parents won’t be coming
They’re not around anymore.
This is where you live now.
I come to visit you every Sunday.

I watch her heart sink with the news,
it does so every week.
Devastation, shock, denial, sadness,
offers of But I’m here don’t help.

Next Sunday I return to hear
Where are my parents
Will they be here soon?
I need to get dressed; help me please
What time are they coming?
I’ll need to leave

Weary of fighting, I say
They’ll be here soon.
You look nice in what you’re wearing.
Shall we have some tea
in the dining hall while we wait?

A warm glow bathes her face,
she smiles and looks at me anew,
touches my face as angst leaves hers
and tea flows down her parched throat
while tears flow down my cheeks.

PAINTING: Portrait of an old woman by Michael Tsinoglou. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Before the ravages of dementia became so apparent, we, the daughters and sons of parents who were suffering from it, were left on our own to figure out how to support them. There were no support groups, no specialized facilities for them, no advice columns on how to interact with them. This poem captures one good day when I learned to stop correcting my mother and instead entered her world and learned so much from her tenderness and body language – a lesson I never forgot.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Evie Groch, Ed.D., is a Field Supervisor/Mentor for new administrators in Graduate Schools of Education. Her opinion pieces, humor, poems, short stories, recipes, word challenges, and other articles have been widely published in the New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Contra Costa Times, The Journal, Games Magazine, and many online venues. Many of her poems are in published anthologies. Her short stories, poems, and memoir pieces have won her recognition and awards. Her travelogues have been published online with Grand Circle Travel. The themes of travel, language, immigration, and justice are special for her. Her book of poems is titled Half the Hurricanes  and is available through Amazon.com.

How to Lose Your Mom Over and Over by Lylanne Musselman (HOW TO Series)

How to Lose Your Mom Over and Over
by Lylanne Musselman

After her hard falls, more messy accidents,
you give in to the reality mom is too hard to handle
at home, since dementia has deteriorated her health
in these two years you’ve been sole caregiver.

Confined to her wheelchair, it’s a mystery how
she escaped the first nursing home you thought
extremely secure. You’re thankful she didn’t become
a statewide Silver Alert in that chilly October air.

With mom settled into a new facility, you make it through
a first Christmas without her at family gatherings. Visit her
four or five times a week. Adapt to other’s well-meaning phrase:
“You’re so lucky! At least you still have your mom.”

Never expect a pandemic lockdown of nursing homes,
or that her hugs from last March will have to hold you.
Call her often, she doesn’t understand why you’re not visiting,
she cries hearing your voice, you never know how to hang up.

Summer, a reprieve of outdoor visits, with masks, six feet apart,
no hugs, no touching. Hard for her to understand the need
for distance, she accuses you of not caring whether she’s dead
or alive, then begs to drive. So much for happy visits.

In autumn, her nursing home locks down again. You’re thankful
they have no Covid-19 cases. Until they do in late October,
then the call: “Your mom has a fever spike.” Nurses assure you
she’s tested negative twice. In November, she’s isolated

in the Covid unit, afraid and alone. Her nurse calls several times:
“Your mom is yelling nonstop! We don’t know how to calm her down.”
Upsetting since no visits are allowed. That Monday, go stand outside
her window. She recognizes you, but she’s a shell of herself.

Her death glares you in the face. Hospice needs to be called.
On Friday the 13th: “Honey, your mom is going to meet Jesus.
It won’t be long.” These words are hard to hear anytime,
but when you can’t be there, it’s cruel. You’re isolated, lost.

You hope she’s in a better place. Know she hated the rest “home,”
being forced to play Bingo, being limited to that wheelchair,
never knowing why her parents weren’t visiting.

PAINTING: Mystical Conversation by Odilon Redon (1896).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When I saw the call for a “How to” poem, I knew I had to write about what it was like to deal with my mom’s dementia, the nursing home, and then her death. 2020 was a hard year. I felt by writing about the experience in this way, it would not feel like such a heavy poem, and it would be one that I could write without feeling that I couldn’t deal with the pain of it all over again. Anyone who deals with a loved one with dementia knows what a hard thing it is, and then when a pandemic hits and puts so many limitations on everyone, it makes a hard situation harder. My mom didn’t survive the year, and I’m still processing all that’s happened. Being a poet helps, as most of us know it’s how we process our feelings.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE PHOTO: I had to include a photo taken last summer during the few months that I was able to visit my mom, outside with a mask, and at a distance. She was not one to keep her mask on. I miss her, and those hard visits.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lylanne Musselman is an award-winning poet, playwright, and visual artist, living in Indiana. Her work has appeared in Pank, The Tipton Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, Rose Quartz Magazine, Silver Birch Press, and The Ekphrastic Review, among others, and many anthologies. Musselman is the author of five chapbooks, including Red Mare 16 (Red Mare Press, 2018), a co-author of the volume of poetry, Company of Women New and Selected Poems (Chatter House Press, 2013), and the author of the full-length poetry collection, It’s Not Love, Unfortunately (Chatter House Press, 2018). Musselman is currently working on another volume of poetry. Visit her at lylannemusselman.wordpress.com and on Facebook,