 Bowl with Human feet, Predynastic, Late Naqada l–Naqada II (Egypt) c. 3700–3450 B.C. Bowl with Human Feet Predynastic Egypt, circa 3700-3450 B.C. Stout feet support the round open bowl. Baby feet. Or swollen feet, under a pregnant belly. You’re carrying low, must be a boy. Gentle curve of red-brown clay, vessel tipping slightly forward. Similar in form, the Met notes, to the hieroglyph that means “to bring,” “to offer.” Or to a symbol that means “pure” as in water, as in source of life. It’s too ancient for us to know what it bore, why it has feet. Footed bowl, trifle bowl, bowl of wonder. Perhaps used for offerings to a deity or the dead. Perhaps to hold water to cleanse or to drink. Perhaps to cup petals, other-worldly blue lotus. Perhaps to serve beer, bread, the daily gruel. How did this piece of pottery withstand nearly 6,000 years? What if the world seems set to destruct? Hammer to the head, hate on the Jumbotron, drone attacks, missile strikes, blocked grain, conflagration. Didn’t we all come from a fat belly, start with small feet? Don’t we all need to be held and fed? Rim of civilization, tilt of the earth, everything off kilter and the bowl is still standing on its sturdy little feet. Christine Osvald-Mruz Christine Osvald-Mruz is an attorney in private practice and the mother of four sons. A graduate of Princeton University and Harvard Law School, Christine is the daughter of a Hungarian immigrant father who taught French and an English-teacher mother. Originally from Long Island, New York, she lives in Morristown, New Jersey. Her work has appeared in Atlanta Review.
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 Woman with Dog, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1962 You Compared Me to a Scab in that poem I found in the trash you forgot to empty. You denied everything, saying Sometimes life is fiction. Then I caught you singing to her across a bar. I called you at her house, warned her Once a cheater, always a cheater, told you to get your stuff. And you showed up in your Jeep with her; she never even unbuckled. Was she your backbone? Did you expect me to invite her in for sun tea with lemon? I told you from the top of the stairs, You’re a coward. But deep down I already knew that. Hearts love who they love, but I'm keeping the dog. Julene Waffle Julene Waffle, graduate of Hartwick College and Binghamton University, is a teacher, family-woman, boy-mom, pet-mom, nature-lover, and life-lover. She enjoys pretending like she has it all together. Her work has appeared in The Adroit Journal Blog, The English Journal, Mslexia, The Ekphrastic Review, among other journals and anthologies, and her chapbook So I Will Remember. Learn more at www.wafflepoetry.com, X: @JuleneWaffle, and Instagram: julenewaffle.  Bronze Statuette of a Huntsman, perhaps Alexander the Great (Greece) c. 250-100 BC © The Trustees of the British Museum. Shared under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) licence. To Catch a Conqueror To spot an Alexander, to catch one in the wild, don’t just take a gander battle-train your eye. Memorize his profile Learn his noble nose This will take a short while Then, observe his pose. Rearing back to canter, Contraposto standing, Gaze of searing candour, Firm-lipped and demanding. Recognize his headgear: Locks wrapped in a fillet. Lion’s mane of gold hair, Something like a mullet. Don’t confuse Apollo; Carefully observe. Gods are always taller, That’s how you discern. Once you’re battle hardened, time to gaze at granite. Drop the sword you’ve carted, Institutions ban it. First you’ll find museums, Then you’ll need a phone Google what’s been stolen That’s the place you’ll roam. One point for a statue; Two for a mosaic. Ten if guards don’t catch you Kidnapping a relic. Lani Burshtein Lani Burshtein is a schoolteacher, artist and writer living in Toronto. Her poetic interests include disaster, history, visual arts, opulence, childhood and constructed identities.  La Fornarina, by Raphael (Italy) c. 1519 (mis)interpretation Creamsicle-coloured roofs peak through the edges of the bus windows. I watch the surroundings breeze by in a deluge of colour- stately beige, white marble, warm pastels -as our bus climbs from one neighborhood to the next. Apartment balconies are stacked like shoeboxes with cracks showing the lives inside: bicycles, potted plants, feet up on railing to enjoy a silent cigarette. I take pictures of what I see, but it is these unspoken, uncaptured moments that stay with me: standing on the bus, swaying in the tide of Rome as it threatens to drag me under. So, this is how people live, I think, the age-old American tourist dazzled by a life which is not their own. I amend: This is how I could live, and then I shut the thought, like a book slammed closed, as my boyfriend caresses the small of my back. It's Fall 2023: I am adrift in my life, recently fired from a much-hated job as an Executive Assistant. I am now spending a week in Rome to burn the severance. I’ll regret it, but I won’t regret Rome. Back in Washington, DC, I just moved in with Johnny, my boyfriend of two years. I knew moving in together would be hard, and it is. I watched my mom, all my life, sacrifice herself for a marriage that would not, could not, save her. I watched her shrink and clean and cry. Though Johnny’s affection is constant and dependable, I find myself coming home angry and uninspired, my jammed shoulder-blades like stacks of empty cereal boxes in the entryway. Plainly, I am afraid of wifedom and its ensuing misery. I cannot tell if my effort towards this relationship is heroic or misguided, or some combination of the two, like when my mom would run the vacuum over the frayed carpet, clinging to those rhythmic motions. In Rome, Johnny and I wander downhill through a neighborhood and enjoy a scoop of pink gelato, grapefruit mixing with the warm October air. We happen upon a museum; Johnny has to slowly convince me to enter. I did not discover this museum in my research, which means, to my chagrin, it does not exist on my pre-arranged list. Standing on the street, I watch Johnny’s cool hands pull my fingers towards his, as his green-blue eyes gently reason that it’s okay to try the museum, to give in to the unexpected. My nervousness rolls off my back with his assurance, so we wander onto the museum grounds, walking towards the columns at the base of the marble façade. I watch Johnny’s tidy crewcut drift from left to right as we take in the thick, stone walls. We begin with old archives, letters written in scratched Italian, postcards and small prints of random objects, but soon the museum opens, unfolding into larger and larger pieces, beckoning us forward. Halfway through the museum, I find a painting that dazzles me. La Fornarina. Though I have never encountered this artwork previously, I am mesmerized. A young brunette woman sits for a portrait, gazing back at me. She is topless, with one hand cradling one of her naked breasts. Her legs and torso are framed by soft sheets of fabric, the silk brushing softly and then settling against her cool skin. She wraps her arms around her naked body like an embrace, one arm falls across the frame to rest between her legs. She is relaxed, and unashamed. I’ll learn later the dichotomies of womanhood in Renaissance Art- how some women are like the Madonna, virginal and pure- while others are more like the Goddess Venus, sensual and beautiful. La Fornarina by Raphael defies these expectations: neither temptress nor angel, La Fornarina is just herself, whoever that may be. In the description of La Fornarina, the museum writes that we do not know this woman’s name or much about her. She was the daughter of a baker and a possible lover of Raphael’s. What seems remarkable to me- as I gaze at her oval face and clear, brown eyes- is that La Fornarina appears to bear being seen, perhaps even inviting the gaze despite the art critics who will declare her boring. As one art critic wrote: “She was a beautiful woman. That is all you need to know.” These words and worse are said about La Fornarina: the Baker’s lass, a girl mired by a lover and an occupation, a woman without a name. She sees it; she knows. She does not drop her gaze. When I came out as non-binary in 2019, I told my friends and family I was “dropping out” - not of college, but of womanhood. After grappling with it for so many years, seeing, particularly the act of being seen, felt like another kind of betrayal, another intrusion. However, here is a woman who appears to revel in the act of being seen: La Fornarina. I watch the play of light in her kind eyes, which perceive though do not judge. As I begin to read more about Raphael, Johnny turns back to see me standing transfixed by the painting. “Of course,” he starts to joke, referring likely to my bisexuality, and the fact this is the only painting with explicit nudity. I laugh along, pained by the assumption, pained by the act of viewing and the unfortunate result: the (mis)interpretation. Johnny and I come from different worlds, I think, as I walk into the expanding galleries, painting stretched from floor to ceiling. Our experiences and identities naturally divide us, creates sensibilities within me that he cannot recognize or know as intimately. I am drawn to the beauty of the world. I see beauty here in this museum and its sweeping gold paintings, scenes of humankind and the divine, intermixed and in motion. I see it even in the side window over the museum’s courtyard: the blue window-frame opens to a sea of green grass and lounging patrons. It seems to me that Johnny operates from logic and reason. The world, I think, is made up of difference, and that’s okay. And yet, as I wander through the gallery, thinking of the eyes of La Fornarina, I wonder about the parts of myself I give up in being in a relationship. When the Italian passerbies and various people stream around Johnny and I in the museum, I can’t prevent or freeze the image they see. Plainly, we appear as woman and man, tethered to one another through intangible meaning, like two stars creating a constellation of light. I can’t grab these individuals to tell them I identify now as non-binary and that this, somehow, makes the image they see different from what it is. What language would I use; what words could be used to map the space between who I believe myself to be and who I am? When I came out as non-binary in 2020, I thought I rejected womanhood and its entrapments. Now, as Johnny and I exit the museum in silence, I realize I am operating within the confines of a heterosexual relationship, cooking and cleaning without acknowledging the gendered expectations that litter the space between Johnny and I’s sleeping bodies at night. This arrangement- man and woman, intertwined - is the thing of religion, of Biblical imagery and wars to be fought and won. The personal is political, my terrible bosses who fired me would say, motivating their underpaid employees to extend and eek out their best work. Is this life in its totality: living to extend, bend, turn over - hamper, dishwasher, sheets - to strip, open, fade? On our last day of Rome, before heading to Florence, Johnny and I wander past a fancy car dealership, and amble into a pizzeria where we order our least adventurous meal yet: a slab of cheese pizza. It’s delicious, refreshing with an Aperol Spritz as men in brimmed hats and women in long skirts mill about in the restaurant. The sun shines; the breeze catches over the cobblestone streets and cloudless sky. I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of a life lived well. I am not sure I can control or influence life in terms of the big things, but maybe I can manage the small. Johnny and I take another bus, using our last printed tickets as we walk onto the semi-crowded platform, wrapping ourselves around the poles in the bus’s centre and also our hands around one another. The world of Rome continues to blur through the windows around us. The next morning, Johnny and I butt heads on the train, fearful we’ve taken the wrong one. Next to us, as we argue in quiet, frantic tones, another American couple is having the exact same argument, only louder and more aggressively. The man is berating his brunette girlfriend, “how did you mix up the trains?!,” as Johnny asks me the same in hushed panic. Johnny and I go into separate train compartments and both cry: he for hurting my feelings; me for my deep-seated fear. Is having a romantic partner the easy-way-out? And then, I sob, tears silently steaming, thinking: does life have a way out, at all, anyways? The train to Florence strides past a countryside that feels familiar even in its newness: the creamsicle colors follow us to our next destination, waving through the fields of hay that ripple with small waves. When we get off the train (at the correct destination), I see the other couple, later, on the platform. She is dragging their luggage as he walks in front, empty-handed, anger still wafting from his shoulders. I feel, of all things, annoyance. As I watch the woman struggle with their heavy suitcases, I feel a surge of anger, unfairly towards her in particular. Johnny booked an Airbnb in Florence with a local woman who gives us a tour of her apartment and a bottle of wine. In the living area, Johnny sits on a bench underneath four windows, backlit by late afternoon light that appears nearly white. It’s misty out with drizzling rain. Despite our squabble on the train, I look at Johnny now and feel a rush of affection towards him. Despite the risks, something in me hopes that it is worth it to be loved and to love, as rewards in themselves. He gestures at me to eat a pastry we grabbed on our way from the train station, something he picked up explicitly with the knowledge I’d be hungry later. I shake my head, tucking myself deeper in the book I am reading about young girls born in Naples, eternally flailing and being disappointed by shit men. The book, the music, the mood: it draws me back to La Fornarina. Centuries ago, Raphael captured La Fornarina and the way her shoulders sloped through his calm brushstrokes. Maybe she imagines his fingers as a force in motion, not unlike the way they sometimes traced the inside of her thighs, as she sits, relaxed and unashamed. What would she think now? The next day in Florence, Johnny and I spend the day walking around and over the famous Ponte Vecchio, hunting for vintage clothing. We find a storefront that doubles as a woman’s home. A chic, blonde woman in her mid-forties draws me past the racks of clothes into her makeshift living room, where she begins compiling things from the racks, gesturing at me to strip to my underwear and try the garments on. Johnny lingers by the front door, looking at the jackets, and I feel strangely beautiful as I try on these handpicked jackets and blouses, feeling the soft texture play gently against my skin. I feel like a model, like I had once wanted, before my mom rolled her eyes and dismissed the fantasy. “I would rather do something that helps people,” she said to me once as I sat mutely in the passenger seat, fifteen and dripping with beauty, recoiling as if I’d been slapped. The source of my once prolific beauty has long since dulled. My body has filled out and I am no longer the ingenue. It doesn’t matter- it shouldn’t matter -but it matters to me, somehow, as I stand naked in this woman’s showroom, feeling her motherly approval as I fit into a beautiful mauve sheer dress. Johnny smiles, a passive observer. The beauty, gender roles and societal approval, Johnny swears, does not matter to him. They still matter to me, though, as I feel my fifteen-year-old self rear up with longing. When Johnny and I go to the Gallerie delgi Uffizi in Florence, with beautiful marble sculptures of perfect, smooth bodies, I am thinking again about La Fornarina. I see gold-plated paintings, stretching across a room, larger than my wingspan, and I see small objects in glass boxes, and the ceiling - even the ceiling! - has a cacophony of small angels and flowers and God and cherubs and men with shields littered across it. But I don’t see her; maybe I just don’t see me. Johnny lingers in museums, reading each word and considering the historical context. I take floors at a time, skipping whole sections to find the windows, which overlooks the city across the river. There’s not much moving water in the channel, but it appears like sea-glass, a deep green-blue that hints at the algae and the sediment washed down below, tumbling and languishing as my breath fogs the window glass. As I begin considering the trees and castles poking out in the far distance, Johnny finds me standing by the window. I ask him, with nervous excitement, to take a photo of me. In this photo, I stand in front of the window with a closed-mouth smile on my face. The camera lingers on my brown skin and dark eyes, though the background behind me is bursting in colour: green-blue water and creamsicle buildings with windows like a many-eyed, benevolent creature. In the foreground of the photograph, and slightly off-centre, I lean towards the camera, with a bemused, genuine earnestness. Johnny immediately declares: “that’s the one!” I realize then with a sinking, rapid feeling of dread that my experience of La Fornarina is, ultimately, Raphael’s interpretation. The painting of La Fornarina was, after all, created through Raphael’s gaze, produced by his unique artistic expression. I feel sadness threaten to overwhelm me as I consider that I, too, am enthralled in my own (mis)interpretation of La Fornarina. After 10 days in Rome and Florence, Johnny and I arrive home in Washington, DC. Our homecoming despite the joys of the trip feels like a massive relief. As time passes, cereal boxes become once more routinely stacked in the entryway like my aching vertebrae, and sometimes I still find myself cleaning and rhythmically arranging my emotions into pliable shapes. I am trying to live with the facts of the world and also, somehow, reach with a tender hand towards Johnny at the end of a long day, a hand that says, “thank you” rather than a furtive “you’re welcome.” I have learned that sometimes it is best to just let the cereal boxes stay where they are. Two years later, staring now at the photograph from the Uffizi, I feel myself being pulled back to Florence, towards that sun-soaked window. Those familiar Florentine colours begin to return: seafoam green, creamsicle orange, muted brown and black. The whir of curious crowds- their varied footsteps and polite conversations- are draping themselves over me now like soft sheets of fabric. I become wholly submerged in 2023 and who I was then: someone learning to exist in a budding relationship and in a softening body, wondering where I begin and the roles of womanhood end. Once more, I feel the nervous anticipation of the camera’s click in Johnny’s hands: the image captured will both exist indefinitely and has already disappeared. I see it; I know. I do not drop my gaze. Bex Pachl Bex Pachl is a nonfiction writer who explores themes of place, monuments and memory. Bex is a current MFA candidate in Creative Nonfiction at George Mason University and the Nonfiction Editor of So to Speak. You can find them on Instagram at @books4bex. Flower Obsession here is a flower for you the room and its objects barely hold their bones buried in saturated reds wading through soft rubble flower trash every surface threatens decision where to place a single flower rafters corners even walls refuse geometry every piece of ragged red combusting entropy a toddler clinging to his mother’s hand petals a tiny void as if colouring in a man leans into a bed already erupting with frenzied reds daubs his daisy at the centre turns to she erasing a slanted lamp and i am gasping between them clotted petals stick to my fingers some- thing sucked out the weather Susan Fealy Susan Fealy lives in Melbourne/Naarm, Australia. Her poems appear regularly in Australian journals and anthologies including Best of Australian Poems 2025. Her debut collection Flute of Milk won the 2017 Wesley Michel Wright Prize and shortlisted for the 2018 Mary Gilmore Award. Her forthcoming collection explores many border crossings including ekphrasis ( The Deer Woman, Upswell Press 2026).  Our Most Grievous Fault, by Karen Elias (USA) 2025 Pro Custodia Creationis: Mass for the Environment “Pope Leo XIV approves new Mass centered on care for the environment” -headline in the Salt Lake Tribune, 4/4/25 We enter the sanctuary with palms, but we could just as easily cradle pussy willows or milkweed. Our arms could overflow with asters and black-eyed Susans, with goldenrod and prairie clover. The opening hymn? It’s always the ocean with its salty crescendos and decrescendos, its rhythmic processional a seascape of starfish and ichthys—fishers of men, Noah, and St. Francis obediently ushering in all creatures great and small to the nearest pews, which, of course, are quite crowded (we move over twice) but somehow multiply seventy times seven before the Penitiential Act. After addressing the Creator, we turn also to the eagle perched atop the black rhino, crunched in beside the red panda, not far from the blue whale in an oversized baptismal, what I have done and what I have failed to do, as well as to the monarch and orangutan in the next pew over through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. It is a long confession that runs into the Kyrie. The children save the day, delighted as they are by fur and fauna, and eager always to pet, hug, and name: the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these. The readings are the expected ones-- For the earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof…, etcetera, etcetera—the homily calling us to do what we should already have done. Of course, we agree and fill the offering plates with our good intentions before the priest proclaims, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world! and we take the sacrifice on our tongue and echo Amen! But what will we sacrifice? In what way give sanctuary to those living, breathing, growing beside us? The recessional is all wind waiting for an answer. Marjorie Maddox This poem was previously published in Sanctuary: St. Andrew's Episcopal Church 2025 Poetry Contest Anthology. Marjorie Maddox is Poetry Moment host for WPSU-FM, assistant editor of Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry, and Professor Emerita of English at Commonwealth University, Marjorie Maddox has published 17 collections of poetry, including ekphrastic collaborations Small Earthly Space; Heart Speaks, Is Spoken For (both with Karen Elias), and In the Museum of My Daughter’s Mind (with daughter Anna Lee Hafer). Maddox also has published a story collection, four children’s books, and the anthologies Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania and Keystone Poetry (co-editor with Jerry Wemple, PSU Press). www.marjoriemaddox.com  Pagan Void, by Barnett Newman (USA) 1946 An Open Letter to God, Wide-Eyed and Fallible O God, wide-eyed and fallible, what do you write with that oversized plume of whistling swan? Black ink smears and splotches my birth certificate. You mold us in an abyss called womb. What of embryos? Am I a biological blunder? I filled tiny circles with a no. 2 pencil. The doctor wrote, bipolar. Am I the crumpled brown take-out bag you tossed out the window when joy riding your streets of gold? While you busily fussy cut and petal fold, I still exist as something between what I am and what you hoped for. When I think of my cancer, I wonder if your oversights are flashback or forethought. What do you do with them? Do you reduce/reuse/recycle? The garbage in your palace must flank your throne, lean against pearly gates towering and tarnished, stink to the highest heights of heaven. Who cleans up after you, brings waste disposal trucks? Will you part with what you hoard? Learn to say goodbye? O God, wide-eyed and fallible, your eyes reflect the same struggles of earth. When you think of us, surely your dark irises swell with tears that drip into puddles of dirty secrets. Do your mistakes taste good? Is earth the cake that failed to rise even frosting can’t fix? And what of black holes? Are they nothing more than chocolate bon bons in pleated white wrappers? Standard pub ashtrays collecting heaven’s debris? Are they trash cans rife with regrets: hefty wads of botched blueprints, working models of Mars in the wrong shades of red, green nebulas, entire galaxies, tossed out with broken hot pink Shiny Brites? We would be glad to bag everything, tie it up, put it out to curb. I hear sometimes the worst of your fiascos become purplescent dragonflies or starry painted deserts, and sometimes even the best are hurled into flames. Rebecca Weigold This poem previously appeared in Stink Eye Magazine. Rebecca Weigold studied Theatre and English at Northern Kentucky University. She has held editorial positions at F&W Publications and ITP/Southwestern Educational Publishing in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has been featured in Floating Acorn Review, Haikuniverse, Rat’s Ass Review, Stink Eye Magazine, and others. Her poem, “Thoughts During Taps,” published in The Ekphrastic Review, has been translated into Arabic. Three of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Additionally, she is proud to have participated in the renowned Uptown Poetry Slam on multiple occasions, hosted by Marc Smith at the historic Green Mill in Chicago.  My heart breaks to announce the passing of Jackie Langetieg, yesterday, in Wisconsin. Our deepest condolences to her son, family, friends, loved ones, and this community. Jackie was an important part of the ekphrastic family and she was very special to me. She was a gifted poet and an enthusiastic learner into her 80s, eagerly participating in workshops and projects, with TER and elsewhere. She loved to join our discussions on art and writing and was even hoping to come to next week's Frida collage night, even though she was in hospice! She was actively writing and submitting poems even while she dealt with falls and fractures. In one of our recent emails, Jackie said, "I'm working from the hospital bed." TER nominated her poem, "House by the Railroad," after Edward Hopper, published last August, for the Pushcart Prize. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/three-after-edward-hopper-by-jackie-langetieg Jackie had a long adventure here on earth, including many obstacles with her health that she faced with determination and humour. She survived cancer twice in the past. She was a loving guide for me when I was going through treatment for the same, cheerleading for me and giving me strength to carry on. I will always be grateful. Jackie, we love you. Lorette and the ekphrastic family ** Some of Jackie's poems: The Muse Brings Me a Horse https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/the-muse-brings-me-a-horse-by-jackie-langetieg A New World Order https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/a-new-world-order-by-jackie-langetieg In Georgia's Studio https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/in-georgias-studio-by-jackie-langetieg   The Wounded Angel, by Hugo Simberg (Finland) 1904
 The Pietà, by Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spain) 1772-1774 Revelation Plum-coloured walls greet me Bruised By the precious cargo Theirs to protect. Goya’s ethereal pink pieta gazes up at the heavens. Pleading For answers To questions about life’s cruel games. (Or so I imagine.) Guards chase me around the space. Displeased By my unconventional attire and behaviour. The mark of madness All too visible. I look at Mary in despair Hoping That she spare me a prayer. But she is consumed by the solemn task Of cradling her son’s lifeless body Now close to marble Almost tactile Soon to be resurrected. As for me, I remain Forever motherless. Laura Michiels Laura Michiels is a theatre scholar based near Brussels in Belgium. She holds a PhD-degree in American literature and wrote a scholarly monograph about Tennessee Williams. She is currently working on her first poetry collection, which focuses on themes of female myth-making, mental illness and performance. Laura has worked as a teacher for almost fifteen years and is especially happy when she gets to discuss feminist theory. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
May 2026
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