Author: South Broadway Press

South Broadway Press is a publisher of poetry through books, print journals, and on our online journal.

She writes me recipes like love letters // Jordan Stanley

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Image: Horvath Mark

She writes me recipes like love letters

BY JORDAN STANLEY
I. 
Dress the table while I’m out 
with the cloth stitched in 
sideways sliced strawberries 
lay the sharpened swords 
whisking wands and Florida water
for the wrists 
for the three gallons of rain 
required to make one tomato as red 
and ready as this 

II. 
Mince each morsel of carrot 
into a carrier pigeon 
to the heart 
bearing blessings from 
your childhood table 
the one with the wobbly 
leg and Sunday paper stains 

III. 
Pick and sniff the peach peel 
under your fingernails 
like perfume and drain the 
French press slow 

IV. 
Notice how a split open 
blood orange looks both 
like a pair of lungs and 
a pussy and recall 
there is more than one way 
to breathe 

V. 
Look at our life according 
to jars in cabinets 
emptied and stuffed 
with hours of ourselves 
homemade hand-pickled 
in a city where you see 
the seasons change not 
so much in the trees 
as in the coconut oil 
on our shelf 

VI. 
Open your skull like a pomegranate
and rub your thumbs inside 
the ruby rind to remember 
you are not Persephone no 
you are only pleasure seeker 
with a mother 

VII. 
Stuff your sharp tongue 
down in your lip like 
dip and let loose the licker 
that thrusts hungrily into 
the night sky like honey 
so sweet we rub it on 
our tongues on 
our wounds on 
the names of our lovers 

VIII. 
Breathe and let 500 butterflies 
fall out with wet wings beating 
against your molars and let your 
belly hang out and your bowls 
overflow and whisk me away 
whatever you do 
whisk me away 
with you

Jordan Stanley (she/they) is a queer poet and content writer who loves to perform at open mics across Los Angeles where she now lives. She has pieced together her heart and found home in Boulder, CO; Brooklyn, NY; Boston, MA; Elon, NC; and Suffield, CT over the last 10 years. Follow her on Instagram @jaystanz for writing, sewing, cooking and baking enthusiasm.

to be human is not an act of desecration | Laura Leigh Cissell

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Image: Mohit Tomar 
to be human is not an act of desecration
 
to live humanly is not anathema to nature. 
I do not apologize for my humanness.

-----------------------------------------------*

I do not apologize for the flower I picked
and carried in my hand to the mountaintop.
I spoke to the flower like an old friend 
then loosed her on the wind 
watching petals and stamen soar 
across the river rich valley below.
I do not apologize for this.

-----------------------------------------------*

I do not apologize for the shade I stand in
cast by brick and mortar and bitumen.

I do not apologize for the steel faucet I turn
loosing earth-cooled water from buried pipes,

filling my mouth with metallic-tinged life
crystal and blooming, pouring down my chin, 

splashing crisp against my bare feet.
I do not apologize for this seasonal waterfall.

------------------------------------------------*

I do not apologize for trails followed through grass and wood,
for the dent in the forest floor where I sat 
and shared lunch with a kingfisher: 
----------He, a silver-green fish, snared fresh
----------I, clementine, grown far from this alpine stream.

------------------------------------------------*

To be human is not an act of desecration.

I am nature as trees
nature as salmon spawned in rivers far from the sea
nature as lichen on scree
nature as lion, as leopard 
----------as beaver, as bison 
nature as wildfire, as hurricane
as water lifted as mist, as water dropped in flakes
as daisies carpeting desert sands.

I am nature as the curious cat–
slow stalking intrigue
delight of game, of pounce
of crunch, of blood
glutted and full of mouse.

I am humanness.
I am holiness. 
I am a masterpiece.

Laura Leigh Cissell (she/they) is an autistic, queer Texan expat residing in the Colorado foothills. They are the head of data analytics for a tech startup, an MFA candidate at Regis University, a spouse, parent, and occasionally a poet. Laura’s greatest sadness is that all the sea turtles of the world will never know how much she loves them.

My mother spoke in tongue | Deborah Ramos

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Image: Cathy Williams

My mother spoke in tongue

to confuse the devil.
She put on her armor, opened the bible,
and pounded the pages flat with her feverish brow.

In the small morning hours,
she called Jesus from the cross,
the sun just rising beyond the orange tree.
She fought Satan all through the night
behind the locked bedroom door.
I heard the dreadful cries.
I begged her to come out, step into the light.

I tempted her with Body of Christ chips.
I offered a goblet of consecrated wine.
But she remained hostage
within the walls of her own madness.
“My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust”,
she screamed, pounding her head on that fucking bible.

She couldn’t catch hold of reality,
so I tossed a net into the river of no edges, no bottom.
She gave herself to the water,
wings folded against her beaten body.
My bloody hands of rebirth
drew her into the womb of my arms.

Eyes dark in their sockets,
I held a mother’s heart close to mine.
We rocked until her spirit washed clean.
We rocked until she found peace in the end of the world.
We rocked until she saw the face of her weeping daughter.

Deborah Ramos, a San Diego artist and poet, is the author of from the earthen drum of my body. Deborah is a graduate of San Diego State University, where she studied art, textiles, costume design and history of theatre. Deborah writes about the sacred feminine, primal desires, roadkill and her cats. Her poetry has appeared in SageWoman, Rattlesnake Press, Dancing Goddess, National Beat Anthology, Border Voices, Fuck Isolation Anthology, Literary Sexts, San Diego’s Writers Ink, and more. Deborah’s creative life includes traveling, writing, exhibiting her art and photography, as well as hosting Poets at the Grove readings in Balboa Park.

Tolling | Jasmine Nicole Maldonado Dillavou

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Image: Bruno Thethe

Tolling

We were always gender-fucked
Wannabe Lover Bunnies
Pink in Gay Bar lighting
Drunk on
Drinks more expensive than our worth and worthless in our day glow night crawl awe-ness
We own nothing
But the love we exchange in Instagram photos and photosynthesis
which is the product of high heels on wood floors
This place
once a post office now a dance club now a church
I can’t pray anymore though
I get tired
and horny
Like winter-born babies
and serotonin thirsty high school drop-outs
We are in love with each other.
We
the chosen family that resembles some cult-like Ghost Club
We haunt each other’s hearts
Never letting too much in
Never letting our feet touch the floor-were always dancing
Even in our dreams
SZA beats bounce off living room walls
But it sounds like church bells
Tolling

Jasmine N. Maldonado Dillavou is an okie-Boricua poet and artist based out of Colorado Springs. Her work explores the intricate private-sphere of Latinidad and femininity through large scale installations and written word. She is most passionate about telling stories in vulnerable ways in hopes that it may open the door for others to do so as well. 

A City Story | Jennifer Maloney

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Image: Philippe Oursel
A City Story

Once upon a time, our town owned a story —  William Stafford

This town once told a story.
It was all about our goodness,
our presbyterian Jesus, embodiment
of meek and mild, 
knew just when
to shut his mouth.

We might’ve owned the world,
but we knew we owned this city—
it looked like us, grey-faced, combed-over,
bespectacled,
be-cocked.
Our uniforms—

blue coats,
white coats,
top coats,
coveralls,

badges,
peaked caps,
clipboards
and stethoscopes—

they could have stood up empty,
could have stood up on their own,
so upright were we, so stiff, 
so erect with straightness—
the bleach of it burning 
our eyes, our throats,
our thoughts—our thoughts

were all about this city, 
what it needed,
what we’d give it,
whether it needed it or not:

white-gloved crossing guards
blonde, baton’d majorettes,
a thousand brushcut lunchpails, 
a parade of white bread wonder
fed into the factory daily—
while we kept

the wheels turning,
kept the peace
at the business end of the nightstick,
kept the hysterical sedated
with TV and Black Velvet 
and small pills
for big-mouthed women—

this town once had a story,
a secret underneath its skirt—
the pressure point of the club handshake, 
the sweet grease for the palm-reader—
the future
was ready-to-wear. 
We believed it, believed in it, believed we’d

get
what we wanted, 
the trophies we paid for,
the money, the manna, the mammon—
we’d get everything
we deserved.

It’s not the dogs,
not the fire hoses 
that ended this tale.

It’s the photographs the press took,
how it looked 
on the news. Operations interrupted
for awhile as we smiled, 
shook our heads, said
what a shame,
we must do better…
and we got better.

At the story.
At the inside jokes. Got degrees 
in Women’s Studies, hid
in Diversity Departments.
Learned to murder Black kids,
but phrase it right on resumés,
and get a job as the director
of the Police Accountability Board.

This story keeps on rolling.
This story is a running joke.

This town elects its drug dealers, 
pays its whores with plummy titles,
keeps its finger on the pulse,
says we have no DNR, 

so the ventilator breathes for us,
the psyche meds think
and dream for us,
the generic Viagra fucks for us,
the Trazodone tucks us in.

In fiction, there are endings, 
there is meaning, sometimes lessons, 
but this story,
like this city,
has a life of its own.

And who am I to judge it? 
To defend it? To defund it?
Who am I to count its blessings?
Or to number all its bones?

This city is American.
This city could be anywhere.
This city never pays for guardrails
if it can vote for guns

This city is my hometown.
This city isn’t getting better.
This city has no place for me.
It’s my hometown,
but it’s not
home.

Jennifer Maloney writes poetry, fiction and plays from her home in Rochester, NY. Find her work in Litro Magazine, Panoply Zine, Ghost City Press, and many other literary magazines and journals. Jennifer is the co-editor of Moving Images: Poetry Inspired by Film (Before Your Quiet Eyes Publishing, 2021) and the author of Don’t Let God Know You are Singing, Poems and Stories, forthcoming in winter, 2023, from the same fine press. Jennifer is also a parent, a partner, and a very lucky friend, and she is grateful. For all of it. Every day.

Aloe: Affliction. Grief. Bitterness. // Vanessa R. Bradley

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Image: Alli Elder

ALOE: AFFLICTION. GRIEF. BITTERNESS.

BY VANESSA R. BRADLEY
I get a sunburn at your funeral.
My mother slathers me with cheap
aloe, sticky and dyed green.
 
I bought an aloe plant cause I liked the way
it felt when I pressed leaves
between fingers

and you told me aloe is for grief.

I look it up after in the book you left behind
soothing burnt, aching shoulders 
with vermouth from the family fridge.
 
Page 30: bitterness and grief in floral language
Break off a piece and squeeze until it bursts

It tastes like shower cleaner and acid reflux
the sound of my own voice in a snowstorm
a shot of rubbing alcohol 
a still green banana
that time you ate brie and yelled at me when you felt sick—
	
----------How could you let me 
-----   do this to myself?

Vanessa R. Bradley (she/her) loves fantasy novels and writes a lot of poetry about dirt, divorce, and discovering queerness. She lives in Epekwitk (PEI) with her wife, where she is working on a collection of poetry about the meaning of flowers. You can find her on Instagram @v.r.bradley and on Twitter @vanessarbradley.

If We Are All Just God in Drag | Carson Elliot

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Image: Brian Suh
If We Are All Just God in Drag
After Baba Ram Dass

Then I will paint my lips with your poetry,
batting eyes at the singularity of a millenia–
                                               This shade always looks so good on you.

Pluck stars from the sky and sew into the fabric
of a time when I last felt this beautiful.
                                              You know, it’s breathtaking.

I can hum a tune that will set even the
most doubtful tongue aflame.
                                              Sit trembling in this blessed creation.

I, who speaks truth into life,
who molds the earth within my hands.
			                       No golden idol can outshine this glory.

Our becoming is the most tender act,
watch curve and angle bless the ground you walk.
			                       Remember when everything was beautiful?

Carson Elliot (they/them) is a nonbinary poet and educator living in Nashville, TN after spending many years in the quiet corners of Northeast Ohio. Their work focuses on the intersections of transness, spirituality, the natural world, and questions of becoming. Their work can be found in publications such as Samfiftyfour, Pile Press, Third Iris, Fifth Wheel Press, and New Note Poetry. Carson lives with their cat, Toast. Instagram: @heyitscarsonk

Palinode // Basil Crane

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Image: Ricardo Gomez

Palinode

BY BASIL CRANE

—This time,—————————–
as a lullaby.—
I do not dare open my eyes—
as I kiss———————————-
you though who am I——–
if I take not this opportunity —————-
to see–
when there are only ———
so many moments left
to look? Four months ago —————
on the air mattress —–
wedged with my back——————————
to your sister—
Whom I love———————
so well ———-
I still fear
the power of will —————–
who could understand
the power of will ————————-
we grow ——-
in distance
as you grow taller?———————–
I want you to get ——
everything you want——————————
to know what would have happened
if I had never met you———————————————–
would I still be a metaphor———————-
of space? Had I been a girl for nothing
but delusions that can allude —————————–
to me you do not cry but say –
“the way you portray the human ——————-
body is beautiful”
no, I am no longer artwork only——–
a self-portrait.– ————————————-
I am the ghost——————–
to whom you gave a body
of mist
I paint a picture of mythic mornings ———————
when water smokes with fog————
I could melt into ———————————–
gentle as my eyes —————
are tired when———–
you grow
taller will you still be able to ————
hear me when I weep?–
I do not know—————————–
if I want you to I do ————-
not know
how to ask you ——————
to listen——–
To the day that is new ——————
with future———————-
days are new and mornings————
are warmer when I find myself
waking with you safe ——————————
inside my stomach.–

Basil Crane (They/He) is a trans, Jewish poet born in Los Angeles and raised not far outside Philadelphia in a house in the woods. They are currently focusing on surviving their last years of high school and hope to study writing in higher education. This is their first publication.

Soon | Quinn Ponds

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Image: Pawel Czerwinski

Soon

— When I was little my Da was still in the Navy. I would often miss him and sit on my mum’s lap and cry, “When is he coming home?” She would tell me gently, trying to ease my heart, “soon”. I would always ask how long “soon” was, but was always told: “It is soon”.
—-In my mind the word “soon” sounded like the sun as it was setting, orange and yellow mixing in the sky and extinguished on the horizon. It seemed like “soon” would only be a day.As I grew older I realized “soon” was much longer. I learned that “soon” is what adults say when they do not have an answer. I began to believe that “soon” did not exist. Now that I am older I realize “soon” is so much longer. “Soon” can be months. It can be years, but it never feels “soon”.”Soon” is always an uncertainty, never a promise.
—-“Soon” can be a lifetime.

Quinn Ponds‘ education and career are in psychology, but she has always held a passion for writing short stories and poetry. There is certainly something to be noted about using psychology in writing fiction! One of her humorous poems about tacos has been published in The PHiX- Phoenix Magazine, and a short fiction piece titled “The Humid Hours” can be found in The Dark Sire Literary Journal. Her cat-themed flash fiction “Baby’s Breath” is in Literally Stories, July 27th, 2022 and her latest published story, “Gather the Darkness” can be enjoyed at Everyday Fiction, December 21st, 2022.