‘To Be Held By A Mother’ & Collected Poems
Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.
to be held by a mother
I lay half-asleep, in the quiet rumbling of the car
the freeway underneath, and above fleeting stars
my mother's hand, weathered by years of toil,
lay gently in mine, a transient coil.
through the car's window, the world winked by,
as her grip on my palm spoke of my childhood years and my cries
the veins on her hand, like quiet rivers, flowed,
their stories of a hardened life were etched deep, silently told.
constant tough love made me only see,
how freezing her skin could truly be.
stained keratin with frustration,
to always be pressed together in religious dedication.
but in that moment, all i could think was this,
her soft fingertips against mine, a rare moment of bliss:
"I'll remain asleep, in this warmth I'll stay,
as love's gentle heat carries me away."
halo on the black casing
I propped the moon neatly,
upright against the chalkboard.
we’re tidying crushed satellites and asteroids,
interlocking pinkies at the event-horizon of course,
where distant bystanders would see us joined for eternity.
for us, it’s only mere seconds
that our skin meets for the first time,
even the sun forgot that I was her child. the nebulas forgot you belonged to them,
by the time we finished sweeping up stardust together.
in His image
I believed you were made in His image, so i made sure to love you as He intended
for in every smile, a glimpse of the divine,
in all of your tears, His compassion did shine.
I believed you were made in His image, so true,
and in loving you deeply, I found life anew.
following the dotted lines on the cut-outs
we could’ve had a makeshift home, the kind that kids like to build in the playground.
made of cardboard, where the windows and doors are drawn on with Sharpie.
rudimentary furniture formed from torn paper and tap.
you would borrow my blankets,
lay them neat and tidy on the bed frame.
cover up last night’s damage, white-out pen on black ink.
unfold the sheets as you spread the pressed linens onto the mattress.
I would borrow your library collection,
take your books off your shelves.
dust the covers, speckles blown away,
unfold the dog-eared corners, and sort them how you liked it.
we would head to our cut-out kitchen, small and plain,
take fruit from our baskets, colored out of the lines with crayons.
that waxy smell wafting through the air like fresh milk bread in the oven.
can we return to our childhood dreams,
abandon the rain, let cardboard memories gleam?
even now, i still think about gluing together our makeshift home
the girl with sunlight in her hair
you’ll always be haunted by me,
pitiful honey-tongued theseus.
recounting falsified fairytales to
your next exploits.
privy to what you deem precious
tinkering and toying to your treasures.
I will always lead with my thread.
red and unabating,
and i never look back.
you’re trapped in a labyrinth made of horrors
stuck with a monster that shares my blood.
I remain the sun gods’ granddaughter,
unforgiving with ultraviolet violence.
Kayla Misa (they/she) is a queer Asian author, accountant in the entertainment industry by day, but an artist by evening.They can be found strumming on the guitar or bowing on the violin, when not crunching numbers. They have been previously published in The Palouse Review, Open Expression Journal, and the Alexandrian Review. They are also featured in Power Poetry’s 2020 annual anthology for upcoming writers. Kayla is also a current collaborator of the non-profit organization, Girls Write Now.
