eMerge Magazine

Mother Tongue by Zhenya Yevtushenko
My mother tongue is my first country where white crows fly and black sheep graze on idioms, where proverbs hide like mushrooms growing in a maze of Karelian birches and pines, where needles sing the songs of my babulya’s hands her lullabies, her stitchwork freezing snows in threads, I had them framed for my mother’s American home, for our mysterious Russian soul which likes to wrap itself in floral shawls and enigmas hidden in a worn карта, которая меня находит, Я – неграмотный компас, a

Dead Poets Society by Kwanele Buthelezi
Dead Poets Society ? No . I don’t mean that we are an army of dead poets , I just mean that maybe John Keating was right when he said poetry is what we stay alive for because tell me why only poets can understand the story of Medusa even though they were never victims of her wrath . I think that poetry is hope when there is barely any . I think that poetry is believing that you will make it through the next day with your heart drumming against your ribcage , while trying to stay afloat because y

no reason to kill the horse by Brian Mosher
He was working over in Mansfield, and his wife was home alone when one of the cows got sick, or choked on an apple or something. She hitched the old horse to the wagon, drove over to where her husband was, full speed. By the time she arrived, the poor old horse was sweaty and breathless. She told him, ‘The cow is in trouble,’ and he said, ‘Well, that’s no reason to kill the horse.’

Paper Doll Summer by Elaine Alarcon
Through the screen doors at either end of the shotgun house, cool and sweet, a breeze creates a wind tunnel smelling of rain. In the sultry summer hours June Allyson, Liz Taylor, and Jane Powell flutter in the shifting currents of wind - paper dolls pinioned to the screen door by little hands, but not for long. Light quickens to a lurid scowl over the horizon and the hot suffocating wind catches and stills, breathless, awaiting the twister. No birds sing in this caesura. Footsteps hurry to th

Mother Tongue by Zhenya Yevtushenko
My mother tongue is my first country where white crows fly and black sheep graze on idioms, where proverbs hide like mushrooms growing in a maze of Karelian birches and pines, where needles sing the songs of my babulya’s hands her lullabies, her stitchwork freezing snows in threads, I had them framed for my mother’s American home, for our mysterious Russian soul which likes to wrap itself in floral shawls and enigmas hidden in a worn карта, которая меня находит, Я – неграмотный компас, a

Dead Poets Society by Kwanele Buthelezi
Dead Poets Society ? No . I don’t mean that we are an army of dead poets , I just mean that maybe John Keating was right when he said poetry is what we stay alive for because tell me why only poets can understand the story of Medusa even though they were never victims of her wrath . I think that poetry is hope when there is barely any . I think that poetry is believing that you will make it through the next day with your heart drumming against your ribcage , while trying to stay afloat because y

no reason to kill the horse by Brian Mosher
He was working over in Mansfield, and his wife was home alone when one of the cows got sick, or choked on an apple or something. She hitched the old horse to the wagon, drove over to where her husband was, full speed. By the time she arrived, the poor old horse was sweaty and breathless. She told him, ‘The cow is in trouble,’ and he said, ‘Well, that’s no reason to kill the horse.’

Paper Doll Summer by Elaine Alarcon
Through the screen doors at either end of the shotgun house, cool and sweet, a breeze creates a wind tunnel smelling of rain. In the sultry summer hours June Allyson, Liz Taylor, and Jane Powell flutter in the shifting currents of wind - paper dolls pinioned to the screen door by little hands, but not for long. Light quickens to a lurid scowl over the horizon and the hot suffocating wind catches and stills, breathless, awaiting the twister. No birds sing in this caesura. Footsteps hurry to th

Mother Tongue by Zhenya Yevtushenko
My mother tongue is my first country where white crows fly and black sheep graze on idioms, where proverbs hide like mushrooms growing in a maze of Karelian birches and pines, where needles sing the songs of my babulya’s hands her lullabies, her stitchwork freezing snows in threads, I had them framed for my mother’s American home, for our mysterious Russian soul which likes to wrap itself in floral shawls and enigmas hidden in a worn карта, которая меня находит, Я – неграмотный компас, a

Fun Town

Final Visitor

There Is a Door

No Man’s Land

Ode to Myself at 12 Years

Rain Delay, Broadcast

Domesticity like The Cubs

Circles

Postpartum

Lipstick

Whiskey

Nothing

Perfumed Estrangement

The Advent of Feeding

Where the Cicadas Sing

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