noteworthy
In each issue, the editors choose a writer they would like to bring
to the readers' attention.In this issue, Natalie Marino is highlighted.
A major focus of Natalie Marino's poems in this issue is on the relationship between mother and daughter: "My mother dies. Her house becomes a church, / her old clothes prayer shawls." And how a daughter becomes a mother too: "I tell my children to let my ghost go / in the sunlight behind the cypress trees." She examines how mothers live on in daughters after they are gone: "at the entrance with the sun behind you / lighting up your old red shawl, // until I remember it was a decade ago / that you died." These poems are unflinching, emotionally intelligent and clear-eyed. Let's trust their exploration of mother and daughter.
Sky Light
I Realize You Are Gone
Cousins in a Field
Acceptance
Lamentation
Obscurity
Anniversary
mourning
My mother dies. Her house becomes a church,
her old clothes prayer shawls. She stays inside
bible pages making them dark yellow.
I tell my children that I will go too,
leaving like an open window. I tell
my children it’s alright to catch sky light
in my urn without looking for shadows.
I tell my children my dreams: I see them
planting tulips in the tangerine spring,
breathing in the openness of petals
as they grow as tall as wild rivers
under the bright permanence of blue sky.
I tell my children to let my ghost go
in the sunlight behind the cypress trees.
in that indigo space
before morning.
Already spreading
the peanut butter
on sandwiches,
I almost remember
the young man
you were
when I loved you,
when you stole
the neighborhood
front yard faux orange
moth orchids
and limelight hydrangeas
and presented them
to me as a crown.
I almost remember
when you told me
about going
to the desert and lying
alone on the sand
below the stars.
I almost remember
keeping your underlined
poems on my pillow,
and willing them to turn
into paper roaches.
We run down a hill
on green grass
as smooth as the silver sky.
Our mothers’ voices
bounce off tree tops
in amber light
as slippery as sand.
Grandpa flew away
when he became
a silent blackbird.
We didn’t hear him
say I am going now
and don’t know yet—
some nights are starless,
when no one dances
on copper gravestones.
The starry summer sky
a deep pre-adolescent blue,
my mother kissed my hair
and I let her take back
her shawl. The light
switched off,
I saw the back of her
in the dark like Mary
with her veil.
I heard her footsteps,
ten soft barefoot steps
down the hall, each step
passing further down
the row of aging
photographs
covering the wall.
I breathed in the slow
fluttering of the moths
against my window
and swallowed
the still air,
tasting its godlessness.
After relaxing my grasp,
I smoothed the index finger
of my left hand
over the blood-soaked
nettles in my right hand.
I came to accept
that I was afraid,
of turning the light back on.
I started like a seed,
sprouting in a wild world
of June’s bloom. I grew tall
in the sun’s land and asked
why the night comes.
My mother knelt at old oak trees
in empty fields holding hope
in her hands while I spent
my time throwing rocks
at stars. I waited for them
to fall, looking for forever
in their unending light.
Now my hands are empty
as an autumn evening.
Admiring my neat rows
of yellow marigolds, I look
for God among beds of salt.
The ghosts in the garden
join the hungry bees
searching for bright flowers
despite the coming darkness.
Even the night is thin
as paper.
Her piano plays
on bright days
making ripe
lemons dance
off trees
until that dark
afternoon
when its songs
turn the room
blue
and obscure
the sound
of her horizon,
like a dying desert
losing the last
of its water.
Grief meets
at the corner
where shadow
and prayer meet.
The coroner
is called
while we look
for a city of fish.
I sit at the bar close to the other
middle-aged women with their long hair
without any gray, so close that I can feel
their shoulders touching mine
and I forget that I am not waiting
for you to walk in.
A couple blocks from your house
at the restaurant called Los Toros,
with the bright blue and yellow
mosaic tiles on the floor behind
the heavy wooden doors at the front,
where it is always crowded
with the flower faces of children—
glowing with hope, running back
and forth below the black framed
photographs of families long since
gone, I forget that I am not dreaming,
that I won’t see your smile
at the entrance with the sun behind you
lighting up your old red shawl,
until I remember it was a decade ago
that you died.
orange orchids leaves in last light
the children run rainbow kites
evening air as light as sky
the sun falls into night
the children hold sea shells’ prayers
orange orchids leaves in last light
the sun falls into night
the children catch firefly gold
evening air as light as sky
hummingbirds sing silent lullabies
the children skip stones on water
orange orchids leaves in last light
mothers point to pictures on the moon
the children play kick the can
evening air as light as sky
the beach bends towards a black end
the children shimmer under white stars
orange orchids leaves in last light
evening air as light as sky
Natalie Marino is a poet and physician. Her work appears in Bitter Oleander, EcoTheo Review, Midway Journal, Moria Online, Oyez Review, Shelia-Na-Gig online, and elsewhere. Her micro-chapbook, Attachment Theory, was published by Ghost City Press in June 2021. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at the Rainier Writing Workshop. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.
