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Meghan Sterling

Clouds are a Mother

Everything softer in the rain. The steel

swaddled in clouds. The skin of the brick

cottoned, the sky swollen. I was up for hours

sick, my body in a rage, my body resisting

the web of sleep, pain like shards of glass

in my belly, and when I woke, the rainfall

was a comfort, the rain-streaked window

opening to a smaller world. The toy whirr 

of cars below wading through oily puddles. 

A pigeon swooping up to its nest in the coping, 

its babies singing with hunger. The sky had come 

closer, the clouds at eye level.  I could feel them 

on my face, they pressed their hands to my forehead, 

they shushed me quiet with their mothering hum.

Meghan photo  - Meghan Sterling.jpg


Meghan Sterling (she, her, hers) lives in Maine. Her work has been nominated for a number of Pushcarts and is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Meridian, Rhino Poetry, Nelle, Solstice, and many others. These Few Seeds (Terrapin Books, 2021) was an Eric Hoffer Grand Prize Finalist. Self-Portrait with Ghosts of the Diaspora (Harbor Editions), Comfort the Mourners (Everybody Press) and View from a Borrowed Field (Lily Poetry Review’s Paul Nemser Book Prize) are all out in 2023. She is the Program Director at Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance and lives in Maine. Read her work at

Bear Review


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