SWWIM sustains and celebrates women poets by connecting creatives across generations and by curating a living archive of contemporary poetry, while solidifying Miami as a nexus for the literary arts.
There are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets of moss strung up on low-hanging branches by the river where rocks shine red like meat.
The sun slivers through the veiny gaps, bringing heat, and yellow lupine blankets the water’s edge in patches, but there are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets
folded twice on the bank for sitting, nice and neat, where we’ve come this afternoon to eat our lunches by the river where rocks shine red like meat.
The place has changed but smells just as sweet. Pollen floats down to rest in our lashes, though there are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets
and ribbons of plump blackberries, which secrete a juice that glistens like blood and splashes by the river where rocks shine red like meat.
We remembered snapdragons, last time we came to eat. They’d open their mouths when we’d squeeze at their latches, but there are no snapdragons here to pinch, only sheets of roaring river where rocks shine red like meat.
Ariel Machell is a poet from California. She received her MFA from the University of Oregon in 2021. Her work has been published in Gravel, Verdad, Landlocked, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.
