Author: South Broadway Press

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

SUN IN YOUR EYES // Azalea Aguilar

~ South Broadway Press ~ 1 Comment
Image: Siora

SUN IN YOUR EYES

BY AZALEA AGUILAR

(Dad is wiping frantically at the windshield
condensation catching up
we are blind to the road ahead)

My therapist is wearing teal glasses today
When did this begin for you?
she lifts the wire frames
gently off the cushion of her cheek
pushing them closer to sight
was there a time before, I wonder
have I always been
meticulously watching
contemplating movement
sirens from school chairs
calculating distance
traveling closer or further
like counting seconds
between lightning and thunder
one one thousand
two one thousand
three one thousand
anticipating arrival
creak of a wooden floor
boots land heavy
do they shuffle or drag
are they staggered or constant
is he coming or going
slamming of a screen door
angry or rushed
in or out
her or him
idling in front of a fridge
hunger or thirst
boredom or pleasure
is it the beginning or the end
I tell her I can’t
remember
a time before

Azalea Aguilar is a Chicana poet from South Texas, gulf scents and childhood memories linger in her work. Her poetry delves into complexities of motherhood, echoes of trauma, and resilience found in spaces shaped by survival. Her work has appeared in Angel City Review, The Skinny Poetry Journal, and The Acentos Review.

Two of Cups // Erica Reid

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: he zhu

TWO OF CUPS

BY ERICA REID
Even the  lions sprout  wings 
in  a  dream  this   desperate, 
the   one   you    begged    for, 
early     bedtimes     &     lucid 
machinations.     Here,     you 
finally   have   it —  if  only in 
a       watery      fog     already 
dissipating.   For   now  it   is 
yours:    harmony  true  as  a 
caduceus, clarity  regular  as 
day.   The   dream’s    central 
art:  your   riven   heart,  the 
other half given away.

Erica Reid is the author of Ghost Man on Second, winner of the Donald Justice Poetry Prize (Autumn House Press, 2024). Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more. ericareidpoet.com

salmon run // Dara Goodale

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Ľudovít Varga

SALMON RUN

BY DARA GOODALE
every year     the air turns cold 
& trees catch fire—orange embers
glow    backlit by    pale   
    autumn sun      
it is time to migrate 

saltwater salmon     go home      
to the rivers    of their youth
        travel in leaps  
of scales that      shimmer    
in afternoon light    
the   vice-grip    of evolution
commands them   to procreate 
      its primal hands       tight     
around      slippery throats 
most of them     will not survive
         the journey is high-risk
uphill battle    they swim      upstream    
in the rush of current     many are lost
    there is no time      to mourn    
    
when they hit freshwater 
salmon     deny the need    to eat
their bodies    nothing    but empty  
        vessels   meant to sire   new
offspring     in sacred genesis
those who make it     to the gravel beds    
where they were born     
lay their eggs    & wait    
for death—

pulled back    
by invisible thread
salmon give up the     free 
expanse    of ocean     
where the world is   boundless
for a wet grave—     
they renounce    the promise   
of future     & return      to birthplace    
where they    die      
martyrs     
for their species
with no one left
to grieve them

Dara Goodale (they/she) is a Romanian-American lesbian, poet, and university student living in Lausanne, Switzerland. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in the American Poetry Journal, Cleaver Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Underbelly Press, The Passionfruit Review, and more.

Decomposure // Two Poems by Maple Scoresby

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Annie Spratt

A TRANS GIRL VISITS HER FAMILY

BY MAPLE SCORESBY
Hiding in the single stall men's room,
I try to reach out for help.
But there is no service
in this backwoods temple, and 
the wifi is password protected.

With a sigh I leave the safety
of the small room and locked door
to wade into the sea of blood
relatives pouring into the pews,
and slide into my saved seat.

Standing at the podium,
the Elder gestures to the body
of my dead grandfather;
starting the eulogy
by praising the Church.
-
	In two years my 
        grandmother will also be
	eulogized by this same
	Elder, who is her brother
	by mother and by faith.

        Just as bereft as the rest
        of the congregation,
        he will use her death
        to accuse the left for
        the downfall of our nation.

	I won't attend in person
	but my mother will send me
        the recording and I will see
	the world is ending
	and I am the one to blame.
-
Here and now, the Elder invites
others to share, admitting
my grandfather had his flaws
and reminding us, it isn’t the time
to speak ill of the dead.

A long silence before
a Brother stands and speaks
on how active he was in the church,
these last months and weeks. Nods
of agreement flood the foyer.

At the social after the ceremony,
I trace footsteps of my past life;
as people who refuse to know me
give conditional condolences to
the person that I used to be.

CRAB APPLES

BY MAPLE SCORESBY

Unsupervised grandchildren gather
around a row of crab apple trees,
picking the bitter browning fruit off
the ground around the tree’s roots;
too young and small to grab the
pristine bright green apples, hanging
high in the branches of the tree.

The kids don’t mind though. They
know that if they root around enough
in the mush decomposing by their feet,
eventually they will find a crisp bite
of emerald, sour enough to make
their faces crinkle up just as
good as any high hanging fruit.

Maple Scoresby (she/her) is a Denver poet who tends to deposit her paychecks into the local claw machines instead of the bank. Her poetry tackles topics like gender identity, double standards, and pizza sauce. In her spare time, Maple likes to cry about how terrible she is at Street Fighter while drinking an obscene amount of eggnog.

When Siblings Visit // Leor Feldman

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Jessica Dismorr

WHEN SIBLINGS VISIT

BY LEOR FELDMAN
tighter than his own hands,
a familial hive claws his throat

prepped by tender olive 
juice varnishes 

the wood vinegar 
against august trauma 
now prepared for pickling

our railing indents the melancholy
splinters rise once again
and plead

to trace his face
connect the dots
of our generational trauma

born of the Mediterranean 
feral freckles cut like diamonds

seeped in displacement and addiction

deep strawberry hair, darker in sea’s salt
feet like talons                  gripping sand

Leor Feldman (they/he) is a Jewish disabled writer who explores themes of culture, placemaking and the connection between our natural world and the chronically ill, genderqueer body. You can find their work in Humble Pie Lit Journal, South Broadway Press, Hey Alma and The Colorado Sun. Leor currently resides in Conifer, Colorado, yet is often found at community events in Denver.

Scribe // T. Lydia McKinney

~ South Broadway Press ~ 1 Comment
Image: Mayur Deshpande

SCRIBE

BY T. LYDIA MCKINNEY
I
subscribe to the pronoun
we

as in

we
don’t f*ck with them

or

in this house
we
don’t play that

We,
the people
protect one another I’d say
we family but

we
don’t f*ck with them either

We world

We children

We weebles
wobble
but never squabble

we
don’t rob
or plagiarize

We strategize
categorizing our emotions
according to size

don’t sweat the small stuff
we
stick to our promise

for this reason

we probably won’t make any

sorry

we can’t answer questions
it’s against policy

get thee
behind we
Satan

Where two or three come
We shall be   an everlasting love

a revolution
we solution
f*ck this pollution
sweep the streets

we mop
we silk road
we paved with gold

we cold
as molded clay pots

we play
until soul’s content

we disconnect
never attaching ourselves
to falling water

we run
lunge hurdles for opportunities
attuned to unity

we together
flock of feather

whether the weather is wet

where the wild things

We Empire
We Jussie
We police
We justice of peace
We prejudice

       protect
       project
anger and fear onto each other

We Marshall

We fall down
we apologize

We serve
we organize
for we are

human

We work it out

sometimes   together   maybe

We hope.

T. Lydia McKinney “The Prodigy Truth” is a Black non-binary performing artist, writer, social work protégé, and domestic violence survivor based in Houston, TX. They are a poetry slam finalist in both San Antonio (2022, 2023) and Houston, Texas (2022, 2024). When not writing, T. Lydia serves various communities as a direct support professional and case manager, supporting the lives of mentally-ill and disabled.

Near the Rappahannock, Wellfleet Oysters // Jennifer Browne

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Beatrice Bright

NEAR THE RAPPAHANNOCK, WELLFLEET OYSTERS

BY JENNIFER BROWNE

The liquor in an oyster is the brine
of the water-body held at harvest.
This river drains the Blue Ridge,
meets the Chesapeake with a sigh,
leaves a sweetness in the locals,
but on the new planks of Wellfleet
Harbor, I tasted your salt. Beloved,
that one word in the day’s chalk
floods the room with light. Could
I ever choose another having known
your waiting nacre, your shucked,
gleam-soft interior along my tongue?

Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions) and the poetry chapbooks Before: After; In a Period of Absence, a Lake; whisper song; and The Salt of the Geologic World. Find more of her work at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne.

for what do we sing if not flowers // Ally Eden

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Soraya Silvestri

FOR WHAT DO WE SING IF NOT FLOWERS

BY ALLY EDEN
a bee slips and shifts over the face of water

tiny figures on the bridge beneath 	

lightning antlers watch the river 

growing rouge


i like august except sometimes

when newly softened leaves flutter 

dead by the rail-yard & earth’s last good leg 

brings down the sky like a marble fish 


we cling to what floats

	wifi 	tattered boards     pink sneakers

rising incense on an eerie blue morning

Ally Eden (Former Poet Laureate of Fort Collins, Colorado) writes poems that are vibrant, poignant & tender. Their work invites readers to conversations about current events while invoking reverence for humanity & nature. A Spanish interpreter by trade, Ally’s poetic ethos parallels her role as a linguist — bridging difference by way of words.

Two Poems // Monique Quintana

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: Karin Luts

MY FAMILY MADE A PACT WITH THE BEES

BY MONIQUE QUINTANA

and the hive is still there hanging over the washing machine. Expanding like my hair when I walk in the rain. In search of another man. Who wants to have an emotional affair? And fold clay into dinner cups and plates so we can playhouse. The bees listen to us murmur under the doorway, like a velvet blanket, I dragged from Cuetzalan. We make a cake and douse the windowsill flowers with imitation vanilla extract. I record myself talking for my She-Ra doll and try to make myself blonde. Learn the color of the maw under my nails when the wind bangs on my door at night, though I should be grateful. My sister says we’re going to The Continental grocery store on Blackstone Avenue, and I pack my bags because I want to cradle down in the fruit’s harvest. The misters wet my hair until it takes its natural bend. And I’m embarrassed by my hair even when I try not to be. Unhooking my feet from pomegranate shells never felt so lovely. Never felt so much like I am dolled fucked for sure. And you will have me for sure. I turn on the TV in my hotel room and catch a documentary about my colonizer ancestors blowing their busted hearts in the wind.

STAGE LOCKET

BY MONIQUE QUINTANA

Crow investigates the sea and begins to fight with his own reflection in the water. His sick self.  The crow twins are so engrossed in their arguing that they don’t notice that yellow roses have sprouted up from the water and all around them like a fence. The woman walking along the beach marvels at the scene and writes a list on her hand. A remedy. Snail pulse. A cloud beat. Salt around the eyes that becomes a mask. Crow pecks bone out of the sand with such ferocity that he makes a dress. Frightened by the art that he’s made, he abandons it there on the sand. The fragments tremble and ache. You, sister, pick up the dress, quick, your nails to the blue, and sigh because it would be unforgivable to rob our mother of her sea. Crow collects green bottle fragments until he has pieces to build a castle. Inside the castle, there is a papier mâché doll with black hair. The doll longs for a machine to take her to a table set with a warm bowl of soup with cilantro. To a brined kitchen. To clay parts. To a clock that resembles the ticking of a water bee.

Monique Quintana (She/Her/Hers) is the author of Cenote City (Clash Books, 2019). Her work has been supported by Yaddo, The Community of Writers, Sundress Academy for the Arts, the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center, and Storyknife. You can find her at moniquequintana.com and on Instagram and X @quintanagothic

II OF PENTACLES, EARTH [REVERSED] // leta iris

~ South Broadway Press ~ Leave a comment
Image: jötâkå

II OF PENTACLES, EARTH [REVERSED]

BY LETA IRIS
juggling the priorities of
my life, to an endless cycle of 
              t r y i n g
to catch each element and make it 
do tricks. to impress, to prove i am 
doing it (life) right, an example. the 
eldest daughter inside
of me dictates my 
ritualistic hunger to 
succeed,
to mean something.
each all fall and splatter
on the ground, one by one
like spoiled plums, purple 
ooze staining the earth below 
me

fruit flies circling to devour
my potential as i lap up any
remnants of the spoiled, moldy 
fruits of my wasted labor. dirt on 
my tongue, seeds between my 
teeth. fists clenched, knuckles 
bruised from grasping onto the 
flesh of my life until it seeps into

the concrete and i am just left 
with the pit, the center. me. at the 
core, i am stripped bare, an echo 
in a hollow body.

leta iris (she/they) is a bisexual, midwestern poet studying english, with a concentration in creative nonfiction and a minor in creative writing. she is the author of two poetry collections, when summer fades to fall and the fruits of her bittersweet sadness, left to rot. her piece, “animals,” was previously featured in the Experiences of Femininity exhibit at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, as well as several other small literary magazines. she enjoys caffeine, thrifting trinkets and collecting purses. you can usually find her beneath a fuzzy blanket, book in hand while cuddled up with her lifelong partner, cody, and her blue-heeler beagle mix, buffy. you can find more of her work on instagram, @tangledflxwers