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Miriam McEwen


Teenage Girls Read Bukowski – Poetry

(Click the audio below to hear Miriam read her poem)   Teenage Girls Read Bukowski   This one ant, same one, I am positive, Runs up and down my bad arm, In circles, In summertime, And I’ll have to kill it sooner Or the quick ones and the dead tickle My feelers—I admit freely, I don’t Know how it all works. I admit to you that I think you’re full of euphemisms. What a wrong-sided…

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Feminism, Poems

An Attempt at Feminism

The Backstory – “An Attempt at Feminism” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: I’m three to four months into the legal drinking age, and feel so deeply betrayed by the intensity of my sexual impulses that I contemplate suicide. The guy I tell myself I like has been driving me around in his mom’s minivan since the fall term, explaining how badly he wants to live on a root-vegetable farm in Idaho and…

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Melancholy Comedy Blog, Post - Graduate

Time with Me Is Wasted

  Time with Me Is Wasted   I’m twenty-something, and I’m bored to tears.  I’m bored of sleeping late because I have nowhere to be during the day, of thinking how maybe I’m eating too much and not getting enough exercise. I am bone tired of my loneliness—the newfound appreciation I have for what it is to be cut off—and feeling that, at any moment, my loneliness could manifest itself as a sinkhole ready to…

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Poems, Seduction Techniques

Seduction Technique

Seduction Technique You can call me crippled so long as you don’t try to kiss me, And go ahead! kiss me under the Mulberry tree so long as You wait ‘til dark. I have nowhere to be ever since last spring when a bad hand   Lost me my savings, a sack full of mismatched-misshapen Buttons and a postcard from Tulsa addressed to one “Marie with the limp~” Romantic that I am, I held that…

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Family Dynamics, Short Stories

Broke Down Morning – A Short Story

Tree Gardner and her sister, Tomlyn, were not Southerners in the traditional sense. Their parents had come to South Carolina after a chance encounter at a tent revival in Savannah, Georgia. The father had worked on Wall Street before a slighted lover, who just so happened to be his boss, threatened to oust him for insider trading. He left town in a hurry, deciding he would “go on the road, you know, like Jack Kerouac.”…

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Disability, Feminism, Melancholy Comedy Blog

Any Day Now

I shall be released. Bob Dylan wrote the words in 1967 (and bless him for it), but I grew up on the Nina Simone version. And if you’re looking for my opinion, it is Ms. Simone’s song through and through. You believe her. She is completely triumphant, even in the sweet desperation heard in her voice. And there are times when the words and the melody plant themselves in my ear. I don’t always have…

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Breastfeeding, Disability, Melancholy Comedy Blog

Mother’s Milk – Breastfeeding Mothers

If you’ve known me for any length of time, or even if we’ve had a conversation averaging fifteen minutes (in a bar or in the hallway of an academic building or around a campfire), the odds are high that you know some unsolicited detail about my coming-of-age. I like to disperse these jewels. I want to demystify myself for you (yes, you).

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9/11 Attacks, Poems

Tuesdays in September – 9/11 Poetry

I have no harrowing story related to the events of 9/11, no personal tragedy. Seven-year-old me was safely tucked away in a classroom at James M. Brown Elementary School. That’s in Walhalla, South Carolina, notable for some suspect Southern hospitality and their annual Oktoberfest. It’s also just a twenty-minute drive down the mountain to the schoolhouse, versus the winding half-hour it takes to reach North Georgia. And though my mother is originally from Long Island, New York and I have extended family in Connecticut, on that Tuesday morning in 2001 as we pulled out of the driveway of our farm, I was more preoccupied with the well being of my puppy than impending terrorist attacks.

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