Angie Macri is the author of Underwater Panther (Southeast Missouri State University), winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize, and Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past (Finishing Line). Her recent work appears online at and Waccamaw. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs.

Angie Macri

Graeae, What We Share

We wander, sisters, across the majority of the earth. In the foam, we share one eye as good women, one vision with depth of all zones, through marine snow, past the abyss. Born with one eye, with hands that know how to lock and pass without seeing, with skin that knows sight and voices that don't need anything but one tooth, again shared, a bone bared, we roam, graeae in lunar rhythms. What does gravity know of the bodies of swans or the arms of old women who have borne all: hope, fear, love, the wrap around oneself when alone, the rocking to say you are not alone. We remember our mother's pace as we bloomed in her womb, she of sharks and whales, she who knew rocks and war. Wrapped in saffron, terrible, sometimes destroyer, she wore the sun's gold stigma, stalk, and style dried and ground to richness, love as pleasure in crocus dust. Sisters, she showed us the way.

My father's family comes from the area in southern Italy known as Magna Graecia. A first-generation American, he left all that behind. I was raised in the heartland, the American world of my mother's family. But this was an area known as Little Egypt. The Greco-Roman world was never far. This poem was written years ago, before I had my second daughter, before the misogyny in our country was laid bare. The power of the feminine seems even more vital to explore now.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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