M.L. Hedison is an emerging poet and former advertising creative director. Published for the first time in 2025, her work has appeared recently in Hole In The Head Review, The Westchester Review, SWWIM, ONE ART, and is forthcoming in The Cimarron Review. She lives in the coastal town of Wakefield, R.I. and can be found at mlhedisonpoetry.com
Slea Head Drive, Adean’s Farm
An eight week old lamb can change you,
dozing in my arms after a bottle
whisper of fleece fragile, like cream
rise and fall of his tiny chest.
I married an Irish Catholic but wasn’t
part of the clan. A new last name
didn’t make it so. Driving the Dingle
Peninsula, we pulled off at the farm,
took in the tangle of ragged cliffs, frantic
surf, green you only imagine. I took
a breath – envisioned 17th century
families hauling seaweed
up hillsides in bundles, creels, and carts
to fertilize soil, stave off famine.
I tucked the lamb under a nearby shade
bush, watched it sleep in velvet moss.
My husband’s strong will, I knew
where he came from.
Women Who Go To Church Alone
Morning brings light through stained glass,
we are illuminated. Six of us,
coats still on against the chill.
These women are strangers, but I know
why they come—to strip down,
start again, become better.
A mix of frankincense and myrrh billows
from a censer, brushes each
window, color and lead briefly blur.
Through the smoke I send up messages,
watch them rise above the altar.
A moment between us.
Prayer is not lonely but a reprieve—
to kneel, legs collapsed
so I can’t run, to stay,
not want or need. We turn, say peace
be with you across the pews,
no spouse next to us,
no questions. We make the sign
of the cross, my grandmother’s
bony finger traces my forehead.
After service, the priest by the door
shakes each hand.
I can cry here.
Calla Lilies
I went to Ireland expecting green, not white
there they were common as tulips
aching in their simplicity.
trumpets of white virtue
against a grey Limerick sky. Purity
that welcomed me to this place where
I sort of belonged, Irish by marriage.
The flower my mother carried down the aisle.
The Galway Review 