As Girl
Annie Wenstrup

At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
June tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye sparked. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The got-like purple reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair 
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore. 

Annie Wenstrup is the poet and author of  
The Museum of Unnatural Histories.
Awarded the tenth-annual New England 
Review Award. She lives in Alaska. 

Miscarriage
Christine Steward-Nunez

Gauzy film between 
evergreens is a web

of loss. Get closer. Reach
to touch the shimmering 

gossamer and your finger
pushes through. Remember

filling that space with desire?
someone else might grieve

the spider who abandoned 
this home; others grow anxious

waiting for a deer for a week
to wreck it. But you--

you grieve the net of thought 
span inside your own womb:

intricate and glossy and strong.