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.
Bartender, my pussy is a shoebox locked up like Fort Knox. Play that country song on the jukebox, about a girl on death row with nowhere to go. You can do anything, said grown-ass men like you when I grew mountains for breasts. Tonight, I don’t need a Ouija board to know this is one haunted-ass place. Still, I’m staying until you shove me out. Back home, my walls nail-scratched. Bedposts carved with so many notches, they’re whittled down to toothpicks. I contain starving multitudes and keep giving back. My crown droops so low I can barely see you. Maybe it’s better this way. You remind me of that woman in the park asked to leash her dog, who shrilled her vocal pitch, pressed cell phone to cheek, and called the cops. It’s hard to tell if you’re even in danger from anyone but yourself. It’s raining. I’ve gone wishing and have to reel myself back. The problem with letting men like you in, is you keep coming and breaking me, again and again. Boy, it’s time you grew up and learned to speak for yourself. My thighs thick as tree trunks, though black elm grows up around me. You can’t cut me off. This land is your land, this land is my land, but Dutch Elm disease is everyone’s sickness. To say I’m unhopeful doesn’t mean I don’t have hope. I’d like to pass this torch, but I won’t. You’re family, like the flat earther uncle. Every day, I stand at the estuary, wondering if I should gently pitch in. I want to bait and feed you to my fish. I want to cry you a river of tears. I hate you. I love you so much I can barely stand.
Maria Nazos' poetry, translations, and essays are published in The New Yorker, Cherry Tree, North American Review, Denver Quarterly, and Mid-American Review. She is the author of A Hymn That Meanders (Wising Up Press, 2011) and the chapbook, Still Life (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Maria has received scholarships and fellowships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and the Vermont Studio Center. She lives with two crazy cats and a patient husband in Lincoln, Nebraska. You can find her at www.marianazos.com.