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.
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
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
I travel the earth with one foot on each side of gender, a border as imaginary and dangerous as any nation’s boundary, no secure footing in either. But most places I enter, I have to choose anyway. I don’t have time to explain to the cab driver why my face and name are at war. When I state myself, who hears how carefully I’ve chosen?
I travel the line past the cop car parked outside the synagogue, past the greeters checking names to deter intruders on our most sacred day. I realize I’ve never asked before if there are cop cars at Eid. Would they be any protection? And there is another unsteady stance: one foot beneath the pile of bodies, one foot on their necks.
Nobody gives a shit about your definition, sometimes. A word means what it always has to them. A name, a curl of hair, a shade of white, a slanting slogan. They pull you off your feet and drag you over the border with one glance.
Every day, I step over a fault line that stretches to the earth’s molten core. I’m one foot in a new world, one stuck in what is.
BECAUSE WE DID NOT DIE
BY LEO ROSE RODRIGUEZ
I fold my arms across my lover’s hard-won breasts, sink my weight onto one thigh gripped tight between hers, our naked skin luminescing in the dim twilight of our new apartment.
Reach across time, I’ll tell you we did not die.
SELF-PORTRAIT AS HAPLOPHRYNE MOLLIS
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: BEST READ ON DESKTOP, OR IN LANDSCAPE ON MOBILE.
BY LEO ROSE RODRIGUEZ
Let me sell my bones to you. Let me be a ghost to my own life, to become yours. My teeth have hunted for a niche that holds them perfectly, someone who will let me stay at her side, no become her side as mine atrophies.
You don’t have to feed me, you don’t even have to look at me. All you have to do is let me remain, laying down the burden that is my self, let me deliquesce into you. A flap of scales, a deformed fin, a translucence
glowing in the deep. Ghostly seadevil, let me become a ghost to my own life, but don’t let me alone.
Leo Rose Rodriguez is a queer, neurodivergent writer and artist based in Minneapolis, on traditional Dakota land. They are the author of chapbooks “Fatherland, Motherland” and “…and this would be Moshiach”. Their writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, Rise Up Review, Sinister Wisdom, and elsewhere.
These poems are from an as-of-yet unpublished collection entitled “Buffalo Elegies”. “Buffalo Elegies,” is a collection of twenty-three poems that reflect on the devastating impact of the near extinction of the American Buffalo during the brutal colonization of the American West. This chapbook is a series of 23 poems elegizing the sixty million buffalo who were massacred and honoring the 23 buffalo who remained. This work explores the historical slaughter of these animals, emphasizing their significance in shaping the Western landscape. The poems vividly contrast the once-thriving buffalo herds with the current empty and haunted environment, highlighting the profound loss and ongoing silence left in their wake. Ultimately, the collection serves as an elegy, mourning the buffalo and the indigenous cultures connected to them.
BUFFALO ELEGY #4
BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH
to the west are the rockies those granite tombstones catching clouds memorializing that storm of brown fur and short horns the fallen nation of hooves there used to be so many buffalo there are none left here we killed them all on purpose haven’t you seen the pictures of their skulls stacked stories high?
right here there was once a breathing snorting stomping tidal wave trampling this dirt into soil but the mountains are so quiet now and so are the plains
we think they are peaceful but they are not peaceful they are dead this mountain range is just a marker on the largest mass grave the world has ever seen and has so quickly tried to forget
BUFFALO ELEGY #9
BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH
standing in the midst of a sold out stadium show I look out at forty thousand bodies it is more people than I have ever seen at once I do some quick math and realize that the number of lives held in this expanse of concrete and heat is nothing compared to the massacre known as western expansion that intentional near extinction of the buffalo it would take one thousand five hundred full up stadiums to equal the population of the herd that were exterminated sixty million reduced to twenty three
this is when my mind begins to swim this is when my I begin to drown this is when I start to sink into how much is really gone
and I look out over the city from the bleacher seating not seeing the sunset not seeing the crowd not seeing the show seeing only what is not there but is only thing that should be
BUFFALO ELEGY #12
BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH
I drive these highways which mirror past migrations and for brief flashes I swear I can hear their feral drum through this valley I swear I see the dusty cloud ghost of their stampede on the horizon line at dusk but I know what I am seeing is just hopeful daydreams for the fact is we live in a cemetery above their unmarked countless graves I look out at these gorgeous vistas the places people come to take pictures of on vacation and I see beauty but I also see what isn’t there it’s like a painting without a foreground just a sprawling landscape with the subject erased from the grasslands from the back of coal trains this is a small attempt to fill in the emptiness it is an attempt to scream “there was so much else here” there was once a living storm a rush like fresh blood that came to give life to this dried up dirt this is a reminder that we are not living in a mere landscape painting of the rocky mountain range there was once a subject and it was not us
Alexander Shalom Joseph is an award winning author of seven published books, most recently The Clearing (Middle Creek Publishing, forthcoming October 2025) and Living Amends (Galileo Press, forthcoming 2025). He has an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English Education. Alexander lives in Colorado, writes a weekly poetry column on Substack and teaches writing workshops in libraries, schools and prisons across the Colorado Front Range.
Caught a glimpse of you last week in the manikin room, tip-toed past a group gathered around the body that wears your face, a protection circle, as if the light they shone in your eyes some kind of candle magic to manifest the real of you from the past, from the river, from the floating, from the dead, to the today, into this rubber corpse, mechanical breath catching, as a reignited heartbeat scratches itself into the screen of their smartphone.
They never asked Are you okay? Never whispered Do you mind? Never wondered Can we make a mask? Never implored could they Copy it? Make you famous? Make you most-missed, most kissed? Your unclaimed body, claimed, controlled, sold.
You are everywhere: your face on walls, CPR dolls, written in literature, cross-stitched, encased in poetry, sold on Etsy, and I dream your no,
your eyes closed and finally they hear your no, your no in death smirk opening wide, your no as purchased faces melt into waters your no, your river Seine bursting in no rushing no through art galleries and Red Cross classrooms, your scream no, flooding the world in no, in your no bursting from doorways, in the churn of dark water pushing no into your death mask, your no into the sunshine, into fire and flame into ash into no into goodbye into reclamation.
BECAUSE EVERY GIRL HAS A POMEGRANATE POEM IN HER
BY MONICA FUGLEI
I remember last summer: three or four fruit lined up, how the French call them grenades, their brilliant speckled red, these tiny bombs.
I remember how I’d pull out the meal prep plastic – quart-sized, like a restaurant kitchen,
then how, to music, I’d drag the knife lightly along the skin trying not to draw juice from the aril, how carefully I pulled the fruit apart, catching any seed that fell.
And here is where a poet would park metaphor or simile – this fruit is knowledge, harvest like murder, fruit blood red and bleeding, fruit ripe like a thought, fruit as fertility, fruit as fecundity,
fruit complex as the woman’s mind and it’s always a woman isn’t it? With the cutting and the work and the pulling and the intricate web of hanging on, her hands – my hands – around delicate skin barely holding this juice to seed, and then my crushing and pulping and
drinking, and I would harvest the work to pass on to my children, would pause in the dripping, in the wasting, hands a deep crimson, this harvest collected moment by moment,
this quiet time in the kitchen, where I ran a finger through yellow pith and packed each ruby seed in small food storage gently, thinking about death.
Monica Fuglei currently teaches in the Department of Composition, Creative Writing and Journalism at Arapahoe Community College in Littleton, Colorado. A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has recently appeared in Progenitor and Mason Street. When she’s not writing or teaching, she’s usually knitting or tweeting on #AcademicTwitter.
They tell me his momma doesn’t pick up my calls because the cell bills are stacked high, hiding under the foldout table tilting in the muddy field along Blosser.
They tell me his momma doesn’t pick up my calls because the translator on the three-way call wouldn’t know the Mixtec word for the kind of tears she weeps,
Somewhere between He’s such a sweet boy believe me, and All this just for fucking cheaper cilantro, and Howling wheels appear each night, Rolls forth a monster of oil and rubber, Lashes out at him whenever my prayers to La Virgen make their way from my lips,
Its red hand closer ‘gainst his eyelash curves and cerebral grooves as he grows up, and as silence sizzles down where I cannot go, where do I go, Profe? Where do we go from here?
They tell me he won’t bring a knife into my class again, because the voices won’t stop but his enrollment here will before anything makes the news.
They tell me graduation is big here, to get a good spot along Hidden Pines as all the semis packed with cilantro bunches, broccoli heads, hearts expectant, generational joys, fists full of wonder, palms opened by the psalms of broken mothers’ broken dreams, will honk, as they cruise past our school.
They tell me the best lowriders in Northwest
will be bouncin’ high,
kids and mommas and a few abuelitas buckled in tight, smiles brimming, laughter floating freely,
mixing with subwoofers and applause
and the boy for whom I can do nothing,
somewhere beyond our line of sight, beyond these Sherwin-Williams green and iron oxide brown fields, these salt-washed cheeks, these grey cement cul-de-sac circuits, where hydraulics creak and squeak as they bounce higher and higher and higher and…
air horns, wooden ratchets, hoots, hollers, applause.
Did the ‘84 cutlass, with the pearl blue and pink trim, with the shimmering spinning hubcaps– that one,
yeah, the one bouncing the highest.
Did it launch him high enough?
Can he hear what we hear, a mile high?
Kevin Foote (he/him) is a writer, teacher, and explorer. He was born and raised on The Central Coast of California, but now calls Green Mountain his home. When he’s not in class with his students, he loves investigating restaurants in the Denver region, trail running, and inviting friends and followers into the writing process online and in poetry slams. Kevin’s first collection, Cabin Pressure, is a work full of the woe and wonder of teaching, the unsung moments of victory in mental health struggles, and the unabashed joy of experiencing the natural world along The Front Range. You can see his published poems and works in progress on @feastsonfoote
The tree of life rises above the pocito, wherein the earth—tunneled with strange injury. I pin a heart to your holy name and feed my blood, my bandage, to the green roots of the mountain. A miracle appendaged— vision in the cure of wilderness, its profound herb, grown solitary.
Sonya Wohletz is a writer and poet living in the Pacific Northwest. Her first book of poetry, Bir Sıra Sonra/One Row After, was published by First Matter Press in 2022. Her second book is forthcoming with South Broadway Press.
we will see it all she whispers as she pushes into my side pressing flesh between fingers and wand everything looks great
your femur appears from the watery ink
Pause click
prints an image for us to hold
how’s the pressure I can’t decide if she means on my belly or in my heart as the air I breathe moves to your blood you emerge sideways ghostlike from my bloody shore
here’s the aortic arch she speaks to her student who I have allowed in the room to view all that I hold inside
look at those ovaries, beautiful I see only shadows sunken faces then your profile:, elf-like, angelic sagittal view split in half
like when you arrived like every moment since split between two selves
the wand moves again and you sink into black water
Ashley Howell Bunn (she/they) completed her MFA in poetry through Regis University and holds a MA in Literature from Northwestern University. Their work has appeared in many places both in print and online. Their first chapbook, in coming light, was published in 2022 by Middle Creek Publishing and their second chapbook, Living Amends—coauthored with Alexander Shalom Joseph, is forthcoming through Galileo Press . Their work has been supported by Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and Sundress Publications. She is an adjunct instructor of English at the Community College of Denver and the Youth Program Coordinator at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. She is a certified somatic coach and yoga guide, and she offers somatic writing workshops in-person and virtually. When she isn’t writing, she is practicing yoga, running in the sunshine, playing with her kids, or daydreaming and staring off into space.
We are incredibly excited to announce South Broadway Press‘ 2025 Best of the Net nominations! Please join us in celebrating these wonderful poets.
The Best of the Net is an annual anthology that honors small press literature that was first published online. The anthology is published by Sundress Publications and is open to submissions for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.
Best of the Net Nominees
FROM SOUTH BROADWAY GHOST SOCIETY // SUMMER 2025 EDITION
south broadway press 