by Anne Marie Wells

Seven months pregnant / and I’m eating / two boiled eggs at 10 PM / to keep hunger from startling / me awake at four in the morning / The brown freckles of one roll across the counter / under my palm / the cracking / like compressed vertebrae beneath a chiropractor’s hands / I’ve always loved the uncovering of things / spending my sandbox days burying / different artifacts of childhood / just so I could unbury them / again / The knowing / something was there / just there / just under / waiting for me / to free it / You have to find the membrane / my mother would say as I’d stand / next to her on a kitchen chair / picking away at a shell one fragment at a time / It can hide on you / but if you can slip your thumb under that soft piece of skin / between the shards / it all peels away / nice nice


This poem received an honourable mention in our 2024 Spring Short Competition.

Anne Marie Wells is the author of two poetry collections: Survived By: A Memoir in Verse + Other Poems (Curious Corvid Publishing, 2023) and Mother, (v) (Cinnamon Press, 2024). She is the content and copy editor for Mama’s Kitchen Press and is available for freelance projects. Find her on social media at @AnneMarieWellsWriter or on her website at

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