Women Who Submit

L.A. in the Rain

by Heather Romero-Kornblum

I never wanted my family to end

I remember how
hopeful
we moved the contents of my son’s life
I anticipated sharing with him again

I imagined him sleeping peacefully
in the sun-drenched room
looking out to hills

Instead, it rained into the apartment
The building hallways lined with buckets and cigarette butts

one of the cats did her business on his bed
as I was left alone

broken spine

too open

with holes that couldn’t be patched

I thought LA was a desert
where I could leave everything outside

Heather Romero-Kornblum is a former academic researcher, returning to poetry after several near-death experiences due to Long Covid. She captures the crumbling of her marriage following her near-death experiences in I’M NOT OVER YOU – the 2025 Four Feathers Press Chapbook Contest winner. She is published in multiple journals and anthologies. https://www.heatherkornbooks.com/

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

How clouds are made

by Isabel Grey

For Byron F. Aspaas

In a time where Berndnaut Smilde can make clouds 
inside, ephemeral art in cathedrals and coal mines, 
 
like the heavens reclined     I’m reminded of how clouds are made 
sky-high. Clouds are made with the sighs of birds, 
 
their response to sunrise and sunsets and the power to forget 
the land below them, even if only for a little while. 
 
Clouds are made when nearby plateaus are leveled 
by the wind blown from another time, not yesterday 
 
or tomorrow. Clouds are made 
by the braiding of tears shed by a forgotten bride 
 
and the first laughter she makes at her new lover’s smile. 
Clouds are made during the silence that comes after 

we’ve passed into the eye of depression’s storm. 
Clouds are made when we drive too fast 
 
over dirt roads in our excitement to return home. 
Clouds are made in that tome online 
 
full of old photographs and notes to self. 

Clouds are made from the fist-fulls of ash 
 
we scatter in our late loved one’s honor. 
Clouds are made by grey matter, 
 
forming nimbuses of rumination 
that shade our heads like awnings. 
 
Clouds are made when fog yawns 
and retreats back up to bed. 

Clouds are made as the moon 
waves away stars like horse flies. 
 
Clouds are sent, special-made 
by the sun for our protection. 
 
Clouds repent for their lightning spent
with a performance of iridescence 
 
the color like soap bubbles washing away 
thunder’s echoing refrain. 
 
Clouds are shaped by the cookie cutters 
of angels, baked at temperatures of repeating numbers. 
 
Clouds are made to mislead each other: 
it’s just a few miles up ahead, trust me!

Clouds are made to house the castles

we’ll retreat to after this.

Clouds are made as stepping-stones 
for the gods and goddesses. 
 
Clouds are made by Mother Nature to use as pillows
and for the Nephologist’s bliss.

Isabel Grey holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Western Colorado University. She is an assistant editor at Terrain.org. Her work can be found at Twenty Bellows, new words {press}, and elsewhere. 

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

Clouds

by Karineh Mahdessian

I am asked to write about clouds
and all I can do is think of the bombs that missed our home
that by the grace of prayers we survived the plane rides through continents 
that we arrived here safely
where now I see students who are scared of masked strangers tearing families apart.

But in this place 
they are protected or at least that’s what we tell them 
here, we have cloud wall papers that post job opportunities so these students can help already over-worked and under-slept parents 
these students who are expected to be guardians of siblings and translator for uncles and aunts, are just children, caught up in high school gossip and sweetheart dances. 

I am asked to write about clouds
and all I can do is think of Katie who earned her wings too soon,
sitting on the fluffiest cloud, with mis-matched socks, reading a book 
while I am here among students letting them know their rights—that their body means their choice, that No is a complete sentence. 
That one day we will all be free.  

Karineh Mahdessian loves hard, reads books and eats tacos! 

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

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