The WWS members included in this post published their work in amazing places during October 2023. I’ve included an excerpt from published pieces (if available), along with a link (if available) to where the pieces can be purchased and/or read in their entirety.
Please join me in celebrating our members who published in October 2023!
Congratulations to Ronna Magy, whose poem “Kitchen Crumbs” appeared in the anthology Wild Crone Wisdom: Poetry and Stories, edited by Stacy Russo and Julie Artmen and published by Wild Librarian Press.
Congrats also to Toni Ann Johson, whose short story “Pride” appeared in Fiction Magazine.
Kudos to Janel Pineda, whose poem “Mujer Malvada” appeared on Poets.org.
I sprout from your black
waters—arms rooting
to earth, bajo luna del lago
Coatepque. I am birthed
from your memory, given
a new skin and hide
to brush and braid, ashes
de Izalco dusting my hair.
A shout out to Mary Camarillo, whose novel Those People Behind Us was published by She Writes Press. Says Lou Mathews, “…Camarillo has created what is by now a rarity, fully rounded characters that invoke what Flannery O’Connor called ‘the mystery of personality.’ These characters will stay with you long after you’ve finished the book. Like a Wellington Beach sunburn or some grains of sand in an oyster.”
Congratulations to Bonnie S. Kaplan, whose poem “Prescribed Burn” appeared in Tab Journal.
They gave me my first tattoos, an asterism
of four black dots pointing to the summer
the crab burst in my cells, unrelated
clusters in my left breast, right lung,
synchronous songs of separation.
It’s a myth the body turns on itself.
Congrats also to Jesenia Chavez, whose poem “Can I Buy a Vowel?” appeared in The Acentos Review.
Kudos to Angela M. Brommel, whose poem “Miss Atomic” appeared in Feather Shows: Las Vegas Writers on Movies, TV, and Other Spectacles, published by Huntington Press.
In addition, Angela’s poem “Mid-Season” appeared in Nevada Humanities.
Fruit-heavy with pomegranate
hanging from a slender branch,
bending to the fig. A leaf-shadowed
mauve wall separates their oleander
and plum-lined yard from yours with
a string of party lights. When you squint,
they sparkle like a portal in a dune.
A shout out to Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo, whose poem “i miss your mole & i’m sad i can only see you in my dreams” appeared in The Acentos Review.
i remember you, abuela, & how you’d braid my hair each night i slept over. It keeps the hair healthy and strong, mija, you’d tell me. You’d make tortillas on the stovetop, touching them with bare hands to flip them. The blue flames of the stovetop licked the backs of those tortillas, brown specks sprouting all over their surface, the same color as your best dish, mole. You’d tell me that means they’re ready.