Let Me Take You to The Market

It is a bright Saturday morning, the morning before Easter Sunday. The sun leans forward, casting a spell over treetops outside my window. Tulip bulbs break out of topsoil in two straight lines, while daffodils flirt with the sky. Varying yellow shades brightly dance in the wind, even brighter against green-growing spring grass. Rows ofContinue reading “Let Me Take You to The Market”


WAKERachel M. Croce Bernard is not the name of a man, but a place where winter eyes cast shore to shore and land kissed upon seagrass-laden rocky salt-marshand feast upon simplicity  where loneliness mates with dreary coastline I wed myself to mean unsailed sailor bent upon cracked compassarrows dance between glass and brass  loose bootstraps lift weighty limbsin searchto hideContinue reading “WAKE”

Maternal in Spring

I miss bathing suit shopping in spring Watching you run toward the car at the pickup line, as though you would combust had you stayed at school another second, your bag flung over an arm while bouncing off your backI miss listening to your chatter, venting the day’s frustrationsI miss watching, after you fell, how youContinue reading “Maternal in Spring”

He’s No Politic I’m No Saint; How We Often Step Into Meaning

Wrapped twice around a frail neck is the lace from my mother’s slipslipping further from where she ought to gogoing forward in the most domestic way  Pale in a pretty green dresswaves sway back and forth around me mashing and folding bending and molding to the perfect dirtydirt dinner taste of pebblesdark and dirtdirty fingernails peeling like the applesweContinue reading “He’s No Politic I’m No Saint; How We Often Step Into Meaning”

If I Could

If I couldI would sit quietly outside a café and finish the last few chapters of my book. Distraction would come only when birds land on the ground in search of crumbs or when I feel the sun’s heat pressed firmly against my right side. If I couldI would look down at the phone aContinue reading “If I Could”

I Am Not Your Comfort Woman

As cold metal scrapes its way through bubbling saliva and wraps around my tongueI think to myself I will do this because I love him Thick fingers curl themselves and firmly swathe leather strapsThey tell me                              move to the left   Continue reading “I Am Not Your Comfort Woman”

Drip on Me

These branches breathe a heavy sigh“Dripping,” as he put itThey drip the curlingCrack the coughing at each sorrowful Stone-cold inGoodnight skyUnknowing friend keep meCompany keep me Here is where home is builtA fire glowing Growing Going Flames dance to be unseen Just before you stack With sturdy dirty fingersStack the dryness of dead branch treeDryContinue reading “Drip on Me”

The Farmer and the Fruit

PART I: The Farmer Babushka referred to our farm as “Dom Wschodzącej Śliwki” which translates to “House of the Rising Plum.” I smile at this as I step out of our cottage and into a pastel-colored dawn. My fluttering eyelashes fan damp mist in a soft breeze. Dull shades hover past a fog, above vibrantContinue reading “The Farmer and the Fruit”