By Lorraine Jeffery
My granddaughter slumpsin resignation.There’s a pout on that angelicface and the chapelis too warm. Her fine,blond hair sticks to hercheek and I quietlystroke it away whilethe speaker drones onabout the prophet Samuel,another apparently angelicchild.Macie glances at her fellowsufferer. Michael is tryinghard to be quiet and still,but he shifts uncomfortably,glances at the clock.A whole long hour—a …
By Sherilyn Stevenson
My daughter gifted me Maira Kalman’s “Women Holding Things,” a themed treasure of art and poetry that entices readers through the surprising and not-so-surprising ways we hold on to people, objects, hurt, and more. Sometimes whimsical, often wise, Kalman reveals a core duty and privilege of female identity. Each of the three Prose pieces we …
By Vivian Pfleger
Grandma Ada died two months ago, and we buried her just as summer turned into fall. Now the leaves are gone from the big cottonwoods along the creek that runs past the road into town, and light coming in over the mountains is gray. Mom and I are going to clean out her house. She’s …
By Elizabeth Smith
Another picture book slid from its place, this time in the corner by the window. Judy paused from planning tomorrow’s craft for storytime. She rose and poked her head down the aisles. Sure enough, Go, Dog, Go! by P. D. Eastman lay on the blue carpet. She furrowed her brow, returning it to the shelf. …
By Tabitha Moody
I used to live in the plains. My house had a second story, with a window in my room that could open to the roof of the first story. I liked to climb out the window and sit on the roof every once in a while to stargaze or stare at the endless blue sky. …
By Lara Niedermeyer
Segullah Literary Journal is pleased to announce the winners of our 2025 Writing and Art Contest. The prizes for this year’s contest were donated by a small group of Segullah supporters who value literature and art created by women of our faith. These winners met our continuing mission of provoking thought and greater understanding and …
By Whitney Owens Hemsath
If you fear they have locked me away, repressed my image, restricted my power, reduced me to a whisper,then take courage, my child. They cannot make me small. I am in the clouds beyond mortal horizons.I am in the breeze waltzing where it will.I am in the perfume of every changing season,and above all else …
By Rebecca Suzuki
The first time I realized my bodywas built wrong for Morming(abmormal?)was when the t-shirts arrivedfor Girl’s Camp. How beautiful upon the mountainswas the cotton-polyon the wise virgins who had savedall their body fat for their breasts,the only curve that we were supposed to hintthrough the veil of Hanes.They rolled up their already-short sleeves, their armsso …
By Heidi Naylor
[after Stanley Plumly] From this side of the canyonthe hikers look like toysmechanical dolls on a trackfaster on the down,weary with experience coming up. Forgotten in the canyon dimensionsand as they round the switchback, lost. You’re tired, Mama, frail,and we—intent on the colors, the targetthe danger of rattlersof dehydration—forget. We don’t knowanymorethat it was you …
By Kate Romney
After Michael Lavers You wake up and hear humans. You wake upand think you haven’t seen enough humans, haven’tsung or written enough poems about humans.Of being crumbled or cuddled by humans. You wake up. Your eyes are open.Orange plastic seats. Shuddering lights throughsubway windows, insistent like operatic vocal cords.Playgrounds exist. And dance halls. And stadiums. …