María Castro Domínguez

Llenar un espacio en blanco en un formulario

Viuda, huérfana, viudo, sin padres
sin palabras
para una madre que ha perdido su hija
para un padre que ha perdido su hijo
cómo llenar el formulario
tan vasto
tan vacío.

Filling a blank space in a form

Widow, orphan, widower, unparented
no word
for a parent who has lost a child
how to fill a form in
so vast
so empty.


María Castro Domínguez has been born many times. She has three poetry collections out in the world, two are co-authored. Her tweet handle is @marcasdom.


 

 

María Castro Domínguez

Madre

Reflejo su rostro
mandíbulas fuertes, pómulos que duelen pero
ella huele a especies,
más morena más alta más ancha que yo,
ella trata de convertirme en una miniatura
el verticilo, la pepita que perdió al nacer
cuando yo empecé.

Mother

I mirror her face,
strong jaws cheek bones that hurt but
she smells of spice
darker taller broader than me,
she tries to make me into a miniature
the whorl the pip she lost at birth
when I began.


María Castro Domínguez has been born many times. She has three poetry collections out in the world, two are co-authored. Her tweet handle is @marcasdom.


 

 

from the Editors

Natalie Wolf has joined the editorial team at One Sentence Poems. In addition to  reading and voting on submissions,  Natalie is posting the poems on the website.

Natalie  is from Kansas, where she enjoys writing poetry and fiction and thinking about cats. Her poetry has appeared in Right Hand PointingI-70 Review, and Live Ideas. For more of her stuff and things, see here.

Our thanks and welcome to Natalie!

Dale, Tony, & Liz

 

Lynn Aprill

In the Schoolhouse

A summer bee bumbles through
the window as we sit, a one-room
Sunday school, in the schoolhouse

where my father stood
with his cousin-best-friend
and stared hard at the camera,
tough at ten, in the schoolhouse

where my grandfather learned
8th grade arithmetic, then left
to start his life as a farmer-carpenter
on land 500 yards from the schoolhouse

that his grandfather built–that august immigrant
who left his homeland just in time to fight
a civil war in his new one, who missed
the birth of my great-grandfather
while surviving the Battle of Nashville–
back in 1894 for $289.00, so that

generations later, I can sit
at a wooden desk, tracing the ancient
carvings of pocket knives, memorizing
“Beautiful Savior,” decorating egg carton
crosses with plastic posies
pilfered from the next-door neighbor
graves of my ancestors.


Educator and poet Lynn Aprill’s poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets calendar, Bramble, Pure Slush, and in her upcoming chapbook Channeling Matriarchs with Finishing Line Press.


 

 

Mary Armao McCarthy

Times

I stood in a pool of time
waiting for the days to evaporate,
and when they had
I could not remember
the feel of the water.


Mary Armao McCarthy is a writer and past president of the Hudson Valley Writers Guild whose work has been scattered through print and online publications for several decades.


 

 

Robert Witmer

An Old Monk

His straw hat
is the full moon
rounding the world
with his bamboo flute.


Robert Witmer, a longtime resident of Japan, is a partially retired professor and poet, who combines a love of family and verse with a passion for petanque and the great outdoors.


 

 

J.I. Kleinberg

It’s open

scrawled in pencil
on a scrap of paper
stuck in the jamb
and I understood
you meant your heart.


Three-time nominee for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards, artist, poet, and freelance writer J.I. Kleinberg makes poems in verdant Bellingham, Washington, and can be found on Instagram @jikleinberg.