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.
I wait for cherries at the saloon, step away from the slot machine to the three-deep bar. Cowboys tip their hats, order me a Kessler.
Outside is thirty below, cold that makes sound hard to carry, chaos shut tight at night you know is there, but never see coming.
The crew eats steak and chickpeas, tables pushed together picnic-style, talk of shot lists and story arcs. I keep the books.
A crew member we call Cali, throws me a look, gets up, walks toward me, surfboard logo on his yellow Billabong tee, face burnt red from Jack.
I can tell you his Malibu address, his weekly take, the strange intimacy of our start-up paperwork, though we’ve never said more than a few words. Lord knows we’ve never touched.
The gust come off his eyes first— a fierce, no-warning, hellgate that pounds my left bicep. I am knocked sideways by the force of his fist.
A grip catches me. A cameraman checks for blood & broken bone. The herd rushes between us for my protection. He was just drunk, they say. Nothin’ to it, really.
Call time is 8 a.m., next morning. Cali is on-set with his walkie and bright future making big movies, lots of action.
Back in my windowed office, everywhere is prairie: bison turned aside from near extinction, hectares of violence under big sky, each bruise the color of bird feathers.
H.E. Fisher's poetry has recently appeared in Dream Pop Journal, Yes Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Pithead Chapel. She is pursuing her MFA at City College of New York, where she was awarded the 2019 The Stark Poetry Prize in Memory of Raymond Patterson. H.E. is the editor of (Re) An Ideas Journal. She currently lives in New York's Hudson Valley.
