Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State and is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine. She has been published in over 150 magazines worldwide, including North of Oxford, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. The Stars Above Us (Kelsay Books) comes out July 2026. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks!. To learn more, visit her website and poetry magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/
The Mender
frugality was religion
the year 1933
after the crash
after people jumped
from windows
she darned socks
patched holes in blankets
bolstered loose buttons
let out the waistline
of her two day dresses
to accommodate the growth
of her third child
gathered scraps of cloth
to make us new knees and elbows
she must have cried
must have cracked
but that too was mended
with handkerchiefs
and sips of chicory coffee
Between Two Worlds
lines are drawn
the way a child draws a black mark
down the center of cream-colored paper
thick heavy permanent crayon—
she’s just across the line
in a clay house with a thatched roof
twin mazankas with window boxes
full of lollipop-red geraniums
we share a common language
different dialects
our children are cousins through marriage
same color of eyes and hair
but lines are drawn
she on one side—me on the other
and brute men declare us enemies
yes—while sipping wine
and eating their borscht
they decide we shouldn’t speak
then we can’t speak
what with bombs exploding
wails fracturing each fragile night
she and I will survey our yards
in pale morning light—will take stock
Nothing New
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
~Ecclesiastes 1:9 (NIV)
the climate has changed again
hot cold hot cold
it simply cannot make up its mind
ice ages volcanoes
blizzards, floods, and dreadful drought
countries are at war again
(or still—have they ever ceased?)
open mouths dropping bombs—
that fill the sky with smoke
litter the ground with white crosses
women are bruised again
peering through purple eyes
as they shake their dizzy heads
and wonder what happened
to those long-lost fairy tales
children are scared again
by boogie men under beds
by boogie men who walk into schools
and pull the trigger
while they scatter like rats in the rain
people are weeping again
for the loss of human kindness
for the scheming and the schisms
for the muddy footprints we keep leaving
on what could have been a clean floor
Shall We?
Shall we sit down to dinner, love?
Shall we indulge in hormone-grown beef?
Shall we agree to digest the dyes—
red #40, yellow #5?
Why this is quite the feast
with sodium nitrates, aspartame,
xanthan gum, and the like.
Do you remember, darling
when hens laid eggs—plain brown eggs
after they’d scratched about on our lawn?
And I believe we used to buy half a cow
(a real cow) that munched on pasture grass
at the Brown’s farm just down the road.
Those were the days, weren’t they, dear—
before propylparaben and emulsifiers
gave us wicked indigestion and sent us running
I Am Crow
wings flush against ribcage
black eyes shining
like two glass marbles
i am still as stone
like grandmother taught me
my body concealed by pines
she hops once, twice
closer now to the mound
i built from bark and moss
with a flurry of flaps
she alights on its peak,
feathers oil-black in the sun
i move my lips silently,
grandmother’s incantation
like bubbles on my tongue
crow of wisdom
crow of bravery
crow of good fortune
if you can spare
but a single feather
i will live in honor of you
her caw caw is like salve
in my ears, honeyed sweet
as she takes flight
i pad slowly to the mound
and inhale one sharp breath
as i spot a single shaft
her gift is tender—
and held between two fingers
i raise it to a gracious sky
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