Marcia Szymanski
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J. Lorraine Brown 
Nancy Tupper Ling 
Marcia Szymanski 
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Fran Witham 
JoAnne Preiser 





Marcia Szymanski is a poet, non-fiction writer, an activist.  Her writings often focus on issues of concern to women and/or those on the margins. Most recently her poems have been published in The Berkshire Review and Bridges:  A Jewish Feminist Journal.  Next month three of her poems will be published in Verdad.




I bring her pink ladies; they're her favorite.

In season for a short time, she vows to eat two

everyday for breakfast, along with her one egg,

boiled exactly five minutes, goat cheese and a rainbow


of vitamins.  I watch her once nimble fingers

move like a seamstress, a long single strand of


yellow-red brocade trailing her small silver

blade.  All those years she never lost her touch.


It was the one thing I could never master

no matter how many apples I peeled.


I ask about her health.  She doesn't tell me

about the fall, only places a plain white plate


in front of me, in a silence, thin as the steam

from her cup of tea.  She picks up another pink lady.


You want one? She reaches across the table,

hands me the knife. I see the bruises


on the apples, her hand and arms. 

I put the knife down.  I bite into the fruit.





We got used to them coming,

strange men in black suits,


looking for Aunt Glo.

It was the only time I knew


my Mother  to lie.

“No I don’t know where she’s living,”


Mom bellowed  to the latest  one

to show up on our front porch.


That evening  we loaded the grey Ford

with brown grocery bags full of food


drove to another new address.

In the kitchen,  around the formica table


that used to live in our house

our Mothers drank coffee, smoked,


argued over luck versus choice.

We sat cross-legged on the floor


in the living room,  played Life.

With each spin of the wheel


we crossed our fingers then

moved our little cars the precise


number of squares hoping not

to end up in the Poor Farm.



Snowstorm, Norton MA


In February's fury

he disappeared

buried between snow --

flakes, heavy and raw,

muffling tender shouts

of a boy searching

for his lost dog.



Two days gone,

his dog, long returned

sits at the door

refuses to eat

sniffs at the small

black sneaker.