Our daughter, Megan Merchant, has been a unique individual since she was a young child. When she was 4 years old she was recognizing words on our computer. She loved her books for young children and would spend time often going through those books, excited when she saw a word she knew. As she got a little bit older she started to read and would spend hours reading a favorite book. In fact, school seemed easy for her as long as the subjects involved reading. Math, however, always remained a challenge. She started sports with soccer and loved it. When soccer was over she started swimming. Her swimming went from elementary swim team to high school swimming to college swimming with a full scholarship. In college, Megan found that English courses were her cup of tea so she went on and got her Master’s degree. She started teaching at the University of Las Vegas and loved it. Then she met her husband, Paul, and they eventually raised a family. Megan always kept writing her poems while the kids were young, often a challenge to do! Megan decided her family should move to Prescott, AZ, because she wanted to raise them in a small town atmosphere and we had retired there. Her husband agreed. So our way she came. In Prescott, she kept writing and soon started to get recognized in the publishing world. She somehow manages to raise two children, publish, and often has a teaching job in addition. As you can see, we are very proud of our amazing daughter. — Mary Merchant

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: Ossuary

Megan Merchant

Making Soap

She bends to scoop white ash from the hardwood burn — what kept the house heated against the chill, adds the pot of rainwater that pooled on the porch, boils in fat, dripped from the bone, the meat enough to hold her little one in sleep — she knows too well how dreams are shallowed with hunger. She crafts a small box made of scrap wood, found near a neighbor's build, already pierced with nails — what could otherwise become a boat to wing across shadows, a box to hold stilled cicadas littered all over the ground. She layers the liquid, covers it with wax paper — swabbed as morning light through factory glass, and finally, pinches salt into the mold, so it will firm enough to hold shape against skin, her hands furiously scrubbing clean the loneliness of each calloused layer.

This poem goes right to the core of motherhood. While holding her sleeping little one close the mother goes about all her chores carefully and always with love. This is motherhood in its fullest sense. My daughter makes it quite clear and endearing.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.