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Tammy Foster Brewer   Contributor -- Georgia


Tammy F. Brewer (formerly Trendle) was born, raised and still resides in Atlanta, Georgia.  She received her BA in English from Georgia State University and is employed as a litigation paralegal.  She is co-author with Pris Campbell of the chapbook, Interchangeable Goddesses (Rose of Sharon Press), The Pedestal, storySouth, Wild Goose Poetry Review, MiPOesias Best of Cafe Cafe Edition, Concelebratory Shoehorn Review, Broadsided, among others.  She is recently married to the poet, Robert Lee Brewer, and is mom to 2 amazing sons and 2 amazing stepsons.  She can be reached at

I Read Your Poem While You Were At The Bank

The movie, Chocolate, is paused
on the t.v., an open box
of fudge waits on the table beside
the overstuffed chair.

You are making chili in the kitchen.
Opening cans of beans and spice
slowly stirring to a simmer --

I remember meeting you
in the airport the second time.
You were leaning against a sign
wearing a Shakespeare t-shirt
that said "Will Power."
A year later you would ask me
what to name our son
and I would say "Will"

because it was a leap of faith
that brought us together, a sentence
that began with will and ended
with yes. The way the phone rings
in the other room and we both just
let it.

Therapy Poem

Sometimes I want to hug her. Tonight
I don't know what to talk about. I say
it's been a while since I've cried. My eyes
of course start tearing up. I ball up
tissue and put it in my purse. She points
to the trash can, which I never think to use. 
I talk about my sweater with the missing
button I haven't worn for weeks. Not
knowing how to sew very well. The shirts
with missing buttons always get pushed
aside, overlooked as though they do not exist
until St. Patrick's Day when I'm frantic
for a green sweater. The one with the missing
button, of course. Which this morning I realized
could be fixed with a pair of scissors. No one
would know it was gone. My hair, long enough
to cover up the place it should be. To the left
of my heart. In the corner of the room or
at my feet is where I look when I can't
tell her about him. She says
feelings have no time or place. I feel her
search for the missing button. I stuff
another tissue into my purse. Leaving,
my hands always smell like peaches. 

all copyrights belong to Tammy Foster-Brewer
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