Month: September 2025

A reciprocity of rituals

By Elisabeth Contreras-Moran

Early morning sun yellows a grey mist that lifts up to the window ledge, sending shafts of weak sunlight into their kitchen as he stands at the deep sink and fills the kettle.  The kettle is moved to its base, its lever gently pushed, as he walks to the cupboard.  Out of the cupboard comes her most colorful jarrito, which he warms under running water, adding two teaspoons of sugar to the bottom; she prefers sweetness to bitterness. Setting a well-used single serve coffee filter on top of the mug’s mouth, he meticulously measures a level scoop of her cinnamon café de olla.  When the kettle softly sings its readiness to add to the reverence of this ritual, he pours the water over the scented grounds and waits patiently for the water to trickle down and for cinnamon and sweet coffee aromas to fill the air.  The light in the room silently shifts upwards while he bides seconds.  Opening the refrigerator to get the glass cream bottle their milkman delivered that morning, he hums quietly.  When the water from the coffee filter has emptied, he removes it and adds just enough cream to make a beautiful shade of brown, stirring so softly.  He pads into another room on socked feet to place this lovingly prepared liquid in front of her.  She is sitting at her desk, writing, as is her morning ritual.  Wordlessly, she sips, closes her eyes, smiles wistfully as he pads away to start his day. When the light in the kitchen has shifted again, to full sunlight or rain, when the mists have disappeared or reappeared, when the sun has lowered on the other side of the house, she will take her great grandmother’s cast iron pan, hold it carefully in two hands, warm it over moderate heat, and lovingly lift from the kitchen stores a meal to nourish.  The meal is served at their old oak table, set with plates and utensils, glasses and wine.  He will close his eyes, breathe in the scent of cumin, garlic, chillies and family history and then smile at her as she sits across from him, with her own plate too.  The sun will set, the shadows will lengthen and consume, but they will not notice.

Elisabeth Contreras-Moran is a Xicana environmental scientist turned poet. She has an undergraduate degree from Princeton University and further science degrees from CUNY.  Currently living in England, she creates at night, when the world is quiet. Her poetry has been in Litro Magazine, Moss Puppy Magazine, Equinox, The Ascentos Review and the Somos Xicanas anthology from Riot of Roses Press.

You can read the entire This Makes up the Sky series by visiting: https://womenwhosubmitlit.org/category/the-sky/

Light Finds Me Anyway

By Melba Morel 

I have hidden
in houses with thick curtains,
slept through sunrises
on purpose,
and called it survival.

I have dimmed myself
to match the shadows
in someone else’s room,
forgetting that I was born
a soft blaze.

But still—
light finds me.

It slips through the cracks
of my resistance,
paints my eyelids golden
before I even wake,
reminding me
I’m still here.

Light doesn’t ask
for permission.
It arrives,
regardless.
It shows me
what I didn’t want to see—
and what I’d forgotten
to celebrate.

Even the body glows
from the inside.
Even grief
throws a reflection.

And maybe
that’s the lesson:

Some part of us
always remembers
how to shine
back.

Melba Morel is an author and poet based in South Florida. Her work explores grief, identity, and healing through the lens of nature, memory, and personal transformation. She is the author of Unplanted Yet Flourishing: A Poetic Journey Through Infertility, Loss & Healing and founder of Poetic Nectar Collective.

You can read the entire This Makes up the Sky series by visiting: https://womenwhosubmitlit.org/category/the-sky/

Moonscape: A Memory

by Jennifer Germano

I walk to the end of the butte just as Grandmother Moon begins to rise over the mountains. She is a glorious orb cresting the horizon. As she rises, the barren desert landscape comes alive around me, like another realm illuminated by her phosphorescence. Long eared jackrabbits scatter wildly amongst the glowing sagebrush, searching for shadows in which to hide. Raising my arms skyward, I draw her down, rejoicing in her tenderness and grace. In a short time she will fade into eclipse, but for now she fills the sky with the ripeness of her belly and covers the landscape in ethereal light.

Two owls scream with haunting cries which deflect and echo off the looming cliffs, their enormous wings bearing them from one hunt to the next. They too feel the power of the moon. A third plummets upon its prey with a screech that pierces the night. There is no longer a cover of darkness under which to shield the little ones. A pack of coyotes cry and yip and sing, a mournful chorus in the otherworldly light. And as Moon rises higher in the sky, the mountains and cliffs beneath her seem to rise as well. There is great magic in her fullness; it is the magic of light.

I lower myself onto the asphalt, my back resting against my front tire, wrapped tightly in a woolen shawl. The eclipse has begun and I fall into the dreamy space of in-between, surrendering to a feeling of timelessness as the moon begins to disappear. Her shadowing mirrors my own repetitive journey into the darkness and then once again into the light.

This night is mine and I sit within the inky blackness by myself, watching, waiting, winter lying upon my shoulders, cold and crisp, until Grandmother reappears in the sky. I leave her with a prayer and a bow, holding the vision of her journey so closely in my heart.

Jennifer Germano, storyteller & poet, draws her inspiration from nature and from her own relationships and spiritual journey. Dreamer, stargazer, firewalker. Weaver of words. Believer of magick, she wanders between the deserts of southern Ca and the mountains of northern New Mexico.

You can read the entire This Makes up the Sky series by visiting: https://womenwhosubmitlit.org/category/the-sky/

NO COINCIDENCE

by Elizabeth Iannaci