Cease, Cows

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Long Arms | Maureen Langloss I come from a long line Of mothers with homemade Sugar cookies in the Cupboard. God at the table. My kid’s sewing machine lives On our table—with the takeout. I don’t know how to use it. Also, my vintage MacBook Pro. Half-drunk cups of tea forgotten between paragraphs and swear words. I aspire to angel food cake under glass— a single slice removed, angels exposed, singing hymns, making it more inviting than cake already, 36 by birthright, is. I aspire to lemons— in transparent bowls— casting their fresh citrus goodness, their tart suggestion of French 75, of pucker. Maybe limes too. Limes and daisies in vases. Separate vases. Matching furniture would be nice. Bedside tables of equal size.
I do have piles on mismatched tables though. Maybe there are pictures of lemons or daisy poems or descriptions of baked goods hidden like prayers in the piles of literary magazines and Real Simples and novels I’ve read to page 33 and catalogues from which I might purchase seam-free socks for my kid who has this sensation problem, this processing complaint, involving seams, that turns her all monster, that makes piles of tears come out before the shoes go on. Hug. Hug. There are piles of drafts on tables too. Stories poems essays novels rambling walking kinda slow. Twitchy. Covered with pencil marks over margins under knickers behind ears like washcloths across baby skin. I’ve surely already inputted these revisions in the MacBook Pro, deleted them again, had them declined by the Submittable machine. Still, I save them next to piles of rainbows. Dozens of magic marker drawings, light separated into parts, because my kid with the seams has rainbow rainbow rainbow issues too. There’s probably a pharmaceutical to treat her addiction already in the piles of medicine boxes we’ve saved from the forty sick days my kids accumulated this year, saved with the instructions on pages so thin 37
Page 1 and 2: Cease, Cows 2018 Mother’s Day Iss
Page 3 and 4: Contents Shark | 11 Abigail Pearson
Page 5 and 6: this golden age | 20 Allie Marini i
Page 7 and 8: Emilia | 25 Eileen Chong is a Sydne
Page 9 and 10: Long Arms | 36 Maureen Langloss is
Page 11 and 12: Shark | Abigail Pearson In my dream
Page 13 and 14: So you cloister their world in cell
Page 15 and 16: The instinctive protective hand to
Page 17 and 18: Laborynth | Amy Alexander 17
Page 19 and 20: we would have named her after a tre
Page 21 and 22: Eighth Month Swelter | Caroljean Ga
Page 23 and 24: Born Crying Sparkles, & Other Girl-
Page 25 and 26: Emilia | Eileen Chong The babies ma
Page 27 and 28: Ever so slowly, your sucking become
Page 29 and 30: Waiting to Inhale | Amy Alexander 2
Page 31 and 32: Or brush back the dream-damp curls
Page 33 and 34: I wrote, “I am disassembled,” I
Page 35: Farmer’s wife, ironing in kitchen
Page 39 and 40: The Bridge | Amy Alexander 39
Page 41 and 42: She taught me the meaning of demasi
Page 43 and 44: offered my tires air for twenty-fiv
Page 45: Howl | Amy Alexander 45

Cease, Cows

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