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Mary C. Rowin

Mary C Rowin at podium    Mary C. Rowin's poetry has appeared in publications such as Panopoly, Stoneboat, Hummingbird, Solitary Plover and Burningword Literary Journal.
 
Recent awards include poetry prizes from The Nebraska Writers Guild, and Journal from the Heartland. Mary’s poem “Centering,” published in the Winter 2018 issue of Blue Heron Review, was nominated for the Pushcart Press Anthology.
 
Mary lives with her husband in Middleton, Wisconsin.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Mary's microchap & selected poems are available below. Download the single-page PDF by clicking the title.  

Origami Microchap

What She Kept  

   

Click title to download PDF microchap

Mary C Rowin CVR What She Kept JUNE 2019 

Cover collage by JanK

 

Download every microchap
for free
from this website.
 
(Set printer for landscape)

 

 

What She Kept in Her Wallet

It was folded in thirds, a yellowed fraying bit
of newsprint from a local paper that noted
births, deaths and fiftieth anniversaries.
I recognized the names, a couple my mother
mentioned at holidays or when reminiscing
about school days in Nebraska or when she
was teaching, an old maid back then, scarred
from a car accident. She married late,
had me, late, and regarded her own fiftieth
anniversary as her greatest accomplishment.

 

 

Found at Mary’s Estate Sale: “Cosita,” 101/200, 1982

Optimistic, I anticipate finding something unique
to add to my collections of green depression glass
or handmade baskets. Mary was a neighbor,
a friend we drove to appointments. We arrive
at the sale late, rooms are bare, staff tallying
marks on sheets of paper. On a vacant bedroom
window sill, a perfect 2x2 inch framed print,
four tiny embossed flowers and a butterfly,
hand-painted in multi-colors. Little thing. I slip it
in my pocket and out again, happy to pay 50 cents.

 

 

What Happened to the Gold Bracelet

My Parents Gave Me on My Sixteenth Birthday

 

A piano-shaped jewelry box. Gold,
with a filigree pattern, red velvet
lining, a gift from my ex-husband
that I hated, the shape so kitschy
and childish. So like him to see me as a doll.
I left the earrings in it when my friends
had a sale. Not bothering to price anything,
I took offers and gave an okay to a man
who looked inside and, gleeful,
offered me five dollars.

 

 

 

The Missing Medal

 

I have it, my dad’s Bronze Star. It sits
in a porcelain box with blue flowers
on its lid. I sent my brother the gold
pocket watch but did not disclose
I had sold the coin collection,
my resentment at his escape
from the terrible decline of our
parents so strong I was willing
to lie, let him think that Duane,
a guy mother hired to help her,
had stolen it all.

Mary C. Rowin © 2019