GIRLHOOD
"Girlhood" is a poem written by e.a. gregor that was originally published in the 90:3–4 print issue of North Dakota Quarterly.
originally published in the North Dakota Quarterly, Issue 90:3–4
I come from the heart of a flyover state.
I always know I’m close to home
when I can faintly smell a stockyard.
I think about how my upbringing
left a mark on me,
making me feel shame for wanting more,
for loving who I love,
for being materialistic instead of maternal,
for not feeling like home was right in front of me.
I didn’t know who I was back then.
I didn’t know what it felt like to love
a friend like a sister,
to be vulnerable,
to hold someone’s hand
while a buzzing needle
etches a flower into their elbow.
DUALITY
Read the poem "Duality" by e.a. gregor, originally published in the spring 2024 print issue of The Rockford Review.
Originally published in The Rockford Review, Spring 2024 issue
I always thought I’d be a pro
at living a double life,
at taking meetings in new york
and booking dinner reservations in chicago.
I dreamt of slicing my body in half,
one side neatly allocated to each city,
but the universe had a different idea.
she granted my wish, on one condition:
she would make the cut herself.
instead of a clean line
from head to toe,
her blade went from my left ear
to my stomach to my hip bone,
trailing down my right leg to my pinky toe.
I hear her laugh as my brain sits
in a conference room in midtown
while my right foot runs on
a trail near logan square.
splitting time is more akin to splitting fibers,
carefully allocating each strand.
my feet are never in the same place.
most days I’m skeptical I’m even wearing matching shoes.
my body is as fragmented
as a picasso sketch
(hopefully not in his blue period).
my limbs are out of order,
uncoordinated,
but as I sew each part back in place,
I dream I adapt to my new proportions.
AMERICA’S HEARTLAND
Read “America’s Heartland,” a poem by e.a. gregor originally published in a digital issue of The Open Culture Collective.
Originally published in The Open Culture Collective, Vol. 3: "Saudade"
omaha—my first encounter with a city--
a place where suburbia thrives.
I grew up feeling “safe” and suffocated
by nuclear family ideals.
trees line each manicured block,
houses have the same forgettable features.
“amber waves of grain” hits differently here.
you can drive 10 minutes and find yourself near a stockyard,
the stench of cows lingers in the air.
there's a beauty in the simplicity here,
something comforting
in the predictability of a flyover state.
people grow up quickly,
rushing toward the pristine altar of family life.
there isn’t much room for imagination or big dreams,
but damn, you sure have mastered small talk.
chain restaurants are often your best choice,
and grocery stores are large enough
to fit three carts in every aisle.
despite my lack of appreciation for america’s heartland,
I never imagined I’d miss it so much
after nearly a year without seeing my mom.
I’ve almost ordered omaha steaks three times since march,
even though I’ve been a vegetarian for most of my life.
all summer, I craved fresh corn on the cob
and picking strawberries in the june sun.
I find myself missing drives to nowhere.
or even walking around the manmade lake
in my parents’ subdivision.
oh, nebraska,
how I hate it there,
but nostalgia has a way of taking hold,
when all you want to do is hug your mom.
BARTENDERS // BARISTAS
Read “Bartenders // Baristas,” a poem by e.a. gregor originally published in The Junebug Journal.
Originally published in The Junebug Journal
the keepers of the city,
in their hands
they hold
the power to caffeinate,
to seduce,
to enlighten.
they bring respite
to lonely days,
making it okay to sit alone.
the perfect shot of espresso,
precise measurements,
a thimble of cointreau,
an orange peel,
fingered alongside
a delicate piece of stemware.
a rush of comfort,
knowing my cortado
will be waiting for me
when I open the door.
“one shot or two?”
I hesitate,
gauging how much I’ll need
to get through the day.
in the past few months,
my barista has morphed into
pouring cold brew
from a glass jug
in my fridge.
once weekly,
I savor the few moments
I get of human interaction.
I stumble over my words,
I interrupt,
too excited for
basic conversation manners.
when we get to-go cocktails,
a mainstay in nyc’s “after”,
we fuss over how to take a sip
while keeping our masks on.
my tolerance is lower now,
my recovery, slower.
it’s weird to me
how quickly
“to stay or to go?”
has left our vernacular.
even sitting outside
feels foreign—like such a luxury.
do baristas miss us as much
as we miss them?
do bartenders?
do they feel the endorphins flowing
every time they see a regular?
I often wonder
how they spend their days now,
how they persevere
when a job that always
seemed certain, secure
became, in some ways,
impossible,
unreliable,
and risky.
how do they grapple with that?
a city that so desperately needs them--
what do they need?