Sowa H. Mrügar is from Wiesbaden, Hessen.
They use they/them and he/him pronouns.
Editor at Trident Press in Boulder, CO.
Instagram: @fuckwarhol.
Category: poem
11:58 pm, our lady of the broken cup – joshua espitia
Church lets in around midnight
Sunday heading into Monday
to the bells of clanging dishes
and music too loud coming from
open kitchens where high dropouts
laugh, yell, and sling runny eggs
for masses of people dying for
an opiate to soothe minds lingering
on things lost and opportunities
missed while they sit in red vinyl
booths lighted by window sign
promises that they’re welcome,
24/7, for the best food in town,
the flickering pink neon casting
cold halos around heads bowed
over black coffee praying that this
time they’ll get that job or win on
that scratch off ticket, or maybe
tonight he won’t be filthy drunk
looking for love or blood or both,
or she’ll walk through the front
door and sit down with him and
everything will be like it used to
They leave their offerings in wads
of ones folded around loose change
for white-shirted, chain-smoking
angels to carry home for the laundry
Joshua Espitia is a former managing editor of The Windward Review literary journal. He has received Texas Intercollegiate Press Association and Haas writing awards for his short fiction and has twice been a panelist at the People’s Poetry Festival. Currently he lives in Corpus Christi, Texas, where he writes bad comedy for the The Vent Daily and pays the bills as an ESL teacher.
Photo: Chris Liverani
now this one is about you – ghost #206
now this one is about you
city o, new song, beautiful detail
can i kiss you just a little
and my lips say no
like two seeds that suspect there might be
a forest hidden inside of them
two poems – ingrid calderon
lick
sweet lanterns, tender—pendulous ryles,
it lies, teeth clenched, between the gaps
youth lives somewhere, but not, if all—defiled
a vain tongue speaks, of past and present traps
a full beak drivels and remembers
what being thirsty brought
a sliver of the page in embers
old love seems to enjoy the knot
pitch and strike to sever hope
we sit upright on hardened wood
a foul beyond a wall, a slope—
he shows me teeth, undressed manhood/
age shows in corners/on mouths that curve
a habit earned and eaten/well deserved
richter
we see it, after an earthquake
the fragility—
in hot weather, we see it
we pulse with the sun and curse our impermanence
those quakes, and that sun, dance with our fate—
they twitch for our sanity—
they are contractions in our veins—yes—
these quakes—this heat—
they yearn to adapt to our digest—
and beg us to smash our bones delicately against another—and remain
Poet, amateur photographer, ex-Mormon & Civil-War refugee from a country you probably know nothing about (El Salvador), Ingrid Calderon made Los Angeles her home, and clawed her way through the English language. Most of her writing focuses on interweaving these subjects whenever possible. She has been published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L’Éphémère Review etc… After writing three chapbooks, Things Outside, Wayward, and Zenith, she continues to scribble nonsense into verse. She hopes it resonates. Find her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com & on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec
Photo: Annie Spratt
girl gone – natalie sierra
Someone fed me nostalgia through a tube and I thanked him with my cunt
He said please can I have another but I was tired and turned into a bird
I am good at this
The milk pours cold into a glass reaching up to broken lips and checked by tongue
down a parched throat what a wholesome image I have created for you don’t you see
She strangled herself with a telephone wire and called the whole town to come over
The neighbors all agreed that the body didn’t even look dead
“She’s just resting.”
Find me online, find me on the flower, find me on the vine
In the night comprised of stars made of broken balloons
spill me across your pages, look at how pretty I can be for your gathered memory
Do you like me now? As a flown bird? As a compass removed from the magnetic pulse of
the earth a trembling needle spun backwards bent
I have not spoken to you
Dear Lost One, Dear Me, Dear Girl Gone Behind The Morning
I never have I never will not that I don’t seek you in gloaming trust in thankless dawn in the shower when I can hear myself think beneath drumming water though the neighbors peer at me through broken windows and thank me for sharing my broken cunt my feathers my lost girl porn poetics
I said thank you. I am good at this.
Natalie Sierra is an author and poet from Southern California where she attended Mt. San Antonio College. She is the author of two collections of poetry, Nadine: Love Songs for Demented Housewives, and Temblors. Her work has been featured in Her Heart Poetry, Quail Bell Magazine, Ink and Nebula, Fine Print Paper, and The Los Angeles Times. Natalie lives in Pomona, CA with her husband and three children.
Photo: Miranda Wipperfurth
three poems // ahja fox
babe on a mission
BY AHJA FOX
I swallow matchsticks to prevent dumpster fires,
but they just keep on sparking
into next year.
Ma says the moon hides its face.
Men hide their skeletons.
How was I to know a strawman had a viper tongue?
I threw a glass jar full of pennies at his ex, told her
count your blessings ‘cause I’m too pretty to break your bitchface.
I keep my nails done. Glitter on my lashes.
I might rattle a few prison chains.
So what? I’m carving my name
into a New York, New York park bench.
Those jesus girls keep saying Christ loves us all,
and he does. That’s why I bring packs
of cigarettes to spiritual battles.
I know what they really want. Me on a shelf.
That can be arranged.
I have a poetry book coming out next Tuesday.
marginalia
BY AHJA FOX
XXX
canine teeth uprooted and worn on a choker
mom wonders why you can’t wear glitter like
the other girls
murk
Little girl promises to never speak
mommy’s name, cough up
crest colored plastic, yank
the heart out with it onto asphalt
to thaw and slip
around legs of next little girl
whose mommy bow tie
knots her hair on dinner plates
after 5 o’ clock. Sharp is the pencil
mommy puts in her hair
when she wants to see light
tease her black panties, limbs drawn
by hysterical laughter. She turns
her skin in red tipped hands, strums
her ribs Orphic Hymns, pinching
sheets of flesh around fingernails.
She has it bad, this condition:
her head drops to her feet,
her feet snap at the ankles, run
under little girl’s bed,
into little girl’s closet,
wherever little girl can wedge
talks with God
between floorboards.
Ahja Fox is a poet obsessed with bodies/ body parts (specifically the throat). She can be found around Denver reading at various events and open mics or co-hosting at Art of Storytelling. She publishes in online and print journals likeFive:2:One, Driftwood Press, Rhythm & Bones Press, Rigorous, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroine Chic, SWWIM , and more. She has also recently been included in the 2018 Punch Drunk Anthology and YANYR Anthology. A Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, follow her on Instagram or Twitter at aefoxx.
Photo: Yaoqi LAI
two poems – D.o.t.B.
Guillotine
Revolution cut so bloody
chopping heads eyes wide
make that bourgeois die
what beauty to hear children cry
this rage broke your calm lie
you stabbed your neighbor in the eye
kill or be killed
church bell screaming
our holy great blade watches
forevermore
Hunger
Teeth gnashing spit splashing
desperation crashing
breaking brittle bones
sucking on stones.
they work hard to remove
the Great Feast from their minds
leave that horror story behind
but it happens again the same time
next year.
The ground too cold frozen
more solid than a shovel
no food left in the hubble
stomach screams no more grumble.
They eye the outsiders
light bright their fires
slash their tires
and make dinner.
try and pray away their inner sinner
the meat is good
the wine salt speckled
no evidence to hide
when it’s wrapped along your inside.
Next year there are no new neighbors
no one on the outside…
so they find babies flesh
tears tastes
softest and sweetest.
D.o.t.B. is a Godde that currently lives in the body of K.V. Dionne. Boulder artist, poet, and photographer, they are one of the founders behind Writer’s Block and are current editor in chief of Writer’s Block zines. You can read some of their work in Spit Poet and can look forward to a collaborative poetry book coming out soon. They have many Hawk friends and Crow songs to share!
a word or two to – ghost #117
healing projected – ghost #11
Famous romance novelist Nicholas Sparks once wrote,
“The emotion that can break your heart
is sometimes the very one that heals it…”
As cliche as it sounds,
I no longer believe that falling in love is going to save us,
not from ourselves and not from the inevitable storm ahead.
The clouds have been gathering over head for months now,
I chose to act like the sun was always coming back out,
The very idea that the love we share is both destroying me
and keeping me alive is hedonistic at best.
I’m no weather man but it seems to be raining red flags now,
we’ve been dancing in the streets begging for more
I gain unconscious pleasure from the pain of losing you
over and over again to the flood,
being wounded has it’s perks, after all,
I looked much the same when you found me right?
We’re just a shitty love story turned scratched vinyl record,
we can’t stop pulling the plastic back beneath our fingers
to replay the ending,
supposedly well written fantasy either
ends in happily ever after or tragedy,
and this looks more like self fulfilling prophecy.
They never mentioned fairy tales going awry at the
drop of a dime and the distressed left in the dark forest
waiting for the half slain monster,
I…I mean the prince…to swallow her whole.
I’m not convinced this model of love is worth the river running
out from under my bedroom door, worth continuing to write about,
not convinced that there will ever be an emotional payout for chasing someone who makes their living on running away.
The emotion that was made to break my heart is
the inner conflict of selfish and selfless spinning
a whirlpool depression in my chest because no one
will never be able to love you well enough to
save you from your homegrown impending doom complex.
Lead me to where this tornado begins to heal me…
It is difficult to wield my impatience silently,
analyzing the way my body detoxes you out of me
pores and ducts compiling the poisons you left
for examination,
minerals inside to extract so that
I may not forget
mental stamina halted by the crucial processing
healing is cyclical and having anxiety can alter
it’s trajectory a little but this self served circle will be completed
disguising survival as self love for the sake of saving face
while i take a second tour of the stages of grief in no
particular order, reliving my traumas like movie trailers
saved them for a dreary day such as this,
seek therapy as if I still believe someone out there has
the answers, get wasted once in a while and remember
why hopelessness is dangerous,
Can only see it when I’m bruised and
buried under it.
I find myself inspired by my loneliness,
supported only by my poetry,
ugly crying when I wake up in the same bad dream
can’t let the paranoias get the best of me, I am
letting go of what used to be
in one massive energetic release,
my aching body hoarding feelings
because that is how it is used to gaining control,
not this time, I am obsessing over my delusions
trying desperately to make them real, not this time
Naivety can in fact be cured but
using another human to witness your own healing
is a manipulation with no antidote hiding inside,
the results come out incoherent anyway
You have been alive 99 days longer than I have
With that extra time I expect you to be 99 days wiser
than I am, expect you to value your time a little more
But we all work at our own pace
and I’ve seen you pace a lot of circles into the floor
there are probably more in your future
I hope they look so much like break dancing
you throw windmills to settle the score with yourself
hope you find your answers in the flow
and start asking harder questions
The things you love the most in
the world can still be hard work,
in fact maybe they should be
Someday we will both get better at
paving our own way so that the labor
feels more like playing with your best friend
Until then we keep pulling each other’s hair out
strand by strand and catching fingers in every slammed door
this love is not the safety net that we planned for
I lose my balance every other step now
We have been crawling in and out of each other for
250 days without truly ceasing, what a polluted
cesspool of love we created to keep feeding each other our lies.
Are you still hungry? I could have just one more bite.
Spoon feed me all the reasons the wounds are still open.
Give it to me straight, what is the diagnosis?
Will the PTSD control the remainder of me
that you have not claimed as marionette parts?
We have not been on the same page since you
started skipping ahead to see whats next,
and ripping out chapters at random.
What would a romance novelist do to
heal them self from the inevitable?
Are we really just waiting around
for the dawn of the next cycle,
the point where the familiar emotion
fills us up with enough smoke and
to send out another beacon of hope?
photo: Noah Buscher
the postcard – the ghost of esperanza
I bought this postcard that reminds me of us.”
A Franz Kline, black against white
Lines spread across the canvass
Chaotic and untamed like me.
A “V” stands firm off-center.
It’s right held up by another reclining line
The black mess underneath make those two lines
look like an “A” and an upside down heart.
I miss the first night I heard your voice.
Once, we talked on the patio of a bar until 6AM
about love, Nixon, and family.
We sat between the picnic tables on astro turf
and my ass went numb.
A little after,
I got you to show me your tattoo
despite all resignation.
We drank and drank until two packs of cigarettes were gone.
I could live in that night.
I could live in you asking me to only speak Spanish to you.
I am drunk in lust for moments well past their expiration date.
If you look at the postcard closer,
the upside down heart looks like a man on his knees
reclined against a wall.
Faceless–
black strokes
blending him into the background.
I melted under the weight of past memories.
All the bad came flooding in after I found a swastika in the elevator of our office.
I was alone and I was scared.
I choked on tears for hours unable to breathe.
Finally, I called you.
You asked all the wrong questions until you asked me what I needed.
I muttered my need.
You couldn’t hear me and asked again.
I said “sorry” and hung up.
I turned off my phone.
I don’t know how to trust.
Despite two months of closeness,
I couldn’t tell you that one time a rich man stole from me.
He wined and dined me
and I liked that he spent more money on me than what I paid in rent my Senior year of college.
I liked it until I woke up naked and bruised
all over with no memories after only 3 drinks.
I couldn’t tell you that this is what I think of with our President-elect.
I didn’t want the story to pour out of me that day.
I was scared if I’d have to hate you
if you ended up being someone who would say something stupid
like having “to know better.”
The woman on the train
said the postcard looks like structure.
She said it was beautiful
Like the black strokes beneath the “V”
were pieces to rebuild with.
She had a warm smile and kind eyes.
We hugged after Vegas.
I drove to San Diego
You called and called me with every mishap before you could get to Los Angeles
The thick of your voice kept me up on the lonesome road as I tried to forget foolish things
Like making you pinkie promise to lean on me the first night we met.
To never work against each other.
You told me to not doubt myself.
We planned to see New Orleans
This postcard reminds me of us.
In Los Angeles, when I called myself a Chicago 9 and a California 7
You corrected me and told me not to be so hard on myself
You ranked me a 9 in California.
We missed being able to smoke inside like we did in Las Vegas.
I asked you if I could stay the night
We played chess and drank whiskey
Infatuation and lust resurface.
The black lines at the top of the postcard show more focus.
The strokes uneven in pressure
Yet firm in direction.
This postcard reminds me of you.
You would not let it happen.
My lips on your shoulder and my fingers entwined in your chest hair
You said “We shouldn’t do it.”
I pressed my lips to your neck and asked, “Why?”
There was no caution there.
You did not waver.
The black strokes at the bottom of the postcard jut out in every direction.
The strokes are aimless and collide into each other
Some stop mid-thought
This postcard reminds me of me.
We slept.
I could not breathe with your hands on me.
I turned away from you.
The white of the upside down heart covers some black.
It tries to cover up mistakes.
The white looks grayer on the right hand side.
This postcard is me.
We didn’t talk about what happened.
I puked two times and you told me I could find grape juice in the fridge.
We never talk about what happens.
We rode to IHOP and every bump made me more nauseous.
The firm strokes at the top are focused,
but not anymore kempt than the rest
They miss filling in spots
They change direction back before they can reach the end of the canvass.
This postcard is you
I can’t remember what we talked about in IHOP
I remember puking a third time and finally feeling like I could eat.
You said I was smiling again so it must have been a good sign.
Outside you told me the lipstick from last night was cracked into my lips and looked terrible.
The white of the canvass isn’t pristine
Shades of gray compliment the strokes
It takes up more space without imposing
The color is dull without the strokes taking up space.
You asked what you could do to be better.
I don’t have an answer for our friendship.
The postcard is brush strokes and pressure
It is hesitation and redirection.
It is structure
And it is impetuous.
I have this postcard for you.
I bought the same one for me.
-The Ghost of Esperanza
Photo: @maiurro
south broadway press 