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Before Bed

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If you look at a mirror in the dark, you see the devil’s face.
-My best friend, Diane, at 13

Son Number Three
Sitting beside the washbasin resisting squirming
and I have to brush his teeth because (the dentist says)
children under the age of ten, or is it six I forget now, do not have the necessary manual dexterity and I have
l o s t
my patience is
maybe it’s in the milk carton
like the toothbrush I once found there, or
in the shampoo bottle with that stick of celery, or
stuck in the toilet’s throat with the tennis ball (the father had to take the whole thing apart, that time) yes, that must be where it is tonight, what little patience I was born
with, and I just, I just
want them all to go to sleep
I want to maybe
just eat a bowl of ice cream
alone
while reading the newspaper
alone

And as he spits peppermint paste
I look at the mirror and see
The devil’s face

Cheng I Sao (detail) by Jennifer Marlow

Cheng I Sao (detail) by Jennifer Marlow. Photo by Robert George Young.

Welcome to Understorey Magazine

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corkums island

Corkum’s Island by Anya Holloway

Welcome to the first issue of Understorey Magazine, stories of motherhood in Nova Scotia. We are very pleased to publish new writers, new works by established writers, and visual art from women around the province.

Through diverse artistic styles and personal experiences, our contributors have created a full cast of women and mothers: the joyous, the struggling, the lost then found, the expectant, the raging, the unheard, and many more.

These writers and artists show that motherhood is not uniform or static. There is no code or role to squeeze into. While our stories might overlap—and there is great strength at these junctions—no two motherhoods are the same; none is more worthy or typical or right.

Understorey Magazine weaves together several strands of my own motherhood experience. I gave birth to three children within fourteen months: my eldest followed by twins. Until that time, I’d thought very little about mothers or babies. Some of my friends had children but many did not. I saw little difference: just bring the kid with you, I figured, and continue life as always. But within the span of two years, I found myself housebound, unable to work or shop or even go to the bathroom without making prior arrangements. Not so easy.

When my kids were toddlers, I met a woman at playgroup who also had three boys under two. She changed a diaper with another baby strapped to her chest and still kept an eye on her eldest racing around the room. She looked shell-shocked but said, “I could probably run a small country now.”

For me, it took becoming a mother to see motherhood. Then we moved to South Africa, and I saw much more.

The twins had just turned two and my older son was three when we arrived in Cape Town. I knew no one. I didn’t work outside the home but looked after the kids: thirteen hours, broken sleep, thirteen hours again. I found it hard. I thought I had it hard, until I met mothers who showed me real hardship, lives I could barely fathom yet lives that still, in surprising ways, intersected with mine. From those women, I learned that we all do more than we take credit for—and are capable of still more than we do. I now believe most mothers could run a small country.

Understorey grew from my own motherhood and from the stories of other women. A third strand is my experience with Literary Mama and the Afghan Women’s Writing Project. In my years working with these magazines, I’ve come to love all stages of the publishing process: meeting writers and reading their work, editing (yes, I love to edit), creating a finished piece, and spreading the word among readers. More than the process, however, these women-focused magazines taught me the power of shared stories, of saying: This is who I am. This is what I’ve seen. This is what I think and how I feel.

Understorey Magazine celebrates the strength, diversity, creativity, and community of women and mothers in Nova Scotia. We invite you to read and share these stories. We also value your opinion. Please tell us what you have enjoyed in the magazine, what you would change, and what you would like to see in future issues. You can leave a comment on the website (in the space under each story) or email me at [email protected].

Thanks for reading!

Katherine

At the Bookmobile: Helen Keller Gives Counsel

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Joie de Vivre by Judith Leidl

Joie de Vivre by Judith Leidl

Suppose we live out of darkness.
Are our bright words any less true?
If I say the sword-flash of river or
you say the streets of Paris,
is it forgery? We are kin,
raised by women who ran their lives
against the poor house, magnolia
and bog laurel pressed between
the same dusty pages. Some
would have us own nothing,
least what we’ve seen in the mind.
One small window, a sudden crack,
a persistent wind.
Our room will never stop filling.
Who says we are empty or arranged?
Tell them to sit in the worn chair
by your window, close their ears and eyes,
try to stop what pours abreast of the senses.
Cowards call it an ill draft.
They deserve their pitiful world.

*The image “sword-flash of river” is Helen Keller’s (found in The New Yorker, June 16, 2003: “What Helen Keller Saw” by Cynthia Ozick).

Spring Poem

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When I woke up this morning
two birds were inside the cage of sticks
I’d struck in the ground for peas.
Below them, a green reception of wet vines.
Weeks before I’d gone into burnt pasture
and cut alders before they leafed.
I plumped cold ground.
I pressed cloudy seeds.
I swept away little stones.
Thank-you, fairy godmothers: I see
there are two pairs of finches now, dark and gold.

When I woke up this morning
two of us were caged inside my arms.
We had found a house.
We tucked us into bed.
We thickened my bones with flesh.
The baby journeyed from that far place
that exits between my legs.
When he suckles, milk gushes
from a fountain we’ve never seen.
In its valves the mothers sing
this body, so lucky is your beggary.

"On a Wing and a Prayer" by Judy Arsenault

“On a Wing and a Prayer” by Judy Arsenault

Empty

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She was drunk.
Lip gloss stained beyond the limits of her mouth.
Skimpy polyester blouse
Clingy, plunging
Nude push up bra, worn, faded, peeking through
Pitiful cleavage

She was lonely.
Designer jeans not intended for a forty year old body.
Flashy sequined pockets
Tight, MILF-Y
Jewels glistening crushed hopes and dreams
Muffin top

She was loud.
Whispering secrets to anyone who would listen
Sloppy drunken kisses
Unzipping, careless
Mouth, hands, body pressed to strange men
Shameful regret

She was hurt.
Empty and hollow like the dirt hitting the box.
Cold, wintery day
No goodbyes
There were no farewell kisses
Unanswered cries

Red wine is elegant.
Red wine is sophisticated.
Red wine one bottle, too many

She was living life.
Cabs and drinks, Strangers and dancing clubs
Cigarettes and lipstick
Room 141
The night fades away

Three boys
Twelve, eight and five
Mommy will be home soon.
…until again

Painting by Norene Smiley.

“You fit into me like a hook into the eye, a fish hook, an open eye — Margaret Atwood” by Norene Smiley.