by Emily Light
In my mother’s dreams, she would travel the country
by Michelle Dodd
Black be the heaviest bond,
that will never leave you stranded.
Black be the sharpened knife when you
are cornered, with politics and slick mouths.
Black be the warmth of the sun,
when the world wants you to freeze.
Black be more than pride.
Black be the comfort of a womb.
Black be what newborns see before
they open their eyes.
Even stars lay on a blanket of black space.
What else could cover the universe with love, like black does?
______________________________________________________________
Michelle Dodd is a spoken word performer residing in Richmond, Va. Dodd was a part of an Emmy nominated commercial, "Colors of RVA", for NBC12 in 2019. She is a Graduate Fellow and on staff for The Watering Hole writing retreat. She has been a three time Winter Tangerine Fellow from 2018 to 2019.
by Bridget Bell
To reach the raised-bed garden, I drag my body through
the caterpillar grass and fescue until I’m at the cinderblocks
packed with dirt and the marigolds I grew
to ward off pests. The flowers failed. I take a rock,
pluck squash bugs from leaves’ pale
underbellies and smear their guts. Each insect
death is a heavy death, so I hush-wail
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The necks
of thick-rind squash curve: a yellow grin
or frown, depending on the way you see
the contour, and the tomatoes rupture, skin
split like a wound and the mint, sprawled green
almost to seed, spits out its minuscule purple flowers,
so tiny but tough as bullets.
______________________________________________________________
Bridget Bell teaches English at Durham Technical Community College in Durham, NC. She also proofreads poetry manuscripts for Four Way Books. Her work has been published in several literary journals including Eclectica, The New Ohio Review, The Los Angeles Review Online, and Folio, among others. Her poem, "Raising Mothers," was recently featured in a presentation called “The Trials, Tolls, and Triumphs of Motherhood: The Many Faces of Postpartum Depression," through the Psychoanalytic Center of the Carolinas.
by Heidi Seaborn
~Beverly Hills Hotel, December 1958
Outside, hibiscus blooms
the color of raspberries.
We made her in this bungalow.
Tiny pink-throated hummingbird.
The doctor wore pink, I think.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
The playwright writes the line.
It is dialogue; and I say, “Yes dear,
tea with bread and jam please.”
Then I remember jam spread
on the bedsheets.
In the cold of morning
I’ve held a hummingbird
like an egg, wings stilled.
______________________________________________________________
Heidi Seaborn is Executive Editor of The Adroit Journal and author of [PANK] Book Award winner An Insomniac’s Slumber Party with Marilyn Monroe (2021), Give a Girl Chaos (2019), and the 2020 Comstock Prize Chapbook, Bite Marks. Recent work appears in American Poetry Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, Copper Nickel, SWWIM Every Day, The Cortland Review, The Greensboro Review, The Missouri Review, The Slowdown with Tracy K. Smith, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in Poetry from NYU. See www.heidiseabornpoet.com.
by Michael A. De Armas
by Nicole Chvatal
My boss is a real estate attorney,
the director of a retirement home
and also runs a side hustle
in which he bids on the belongings
of the homes of those
who are about to move on,
or move in with their kids or down
South or wherever. Treasures no longer
important enough to fit. In Maine
survival often depends on these types
of secondary jobs: Snow ploughing to push
a little more cash into the coffers, clamming
licenses to dig out a bushel
of Casco Bay littlenecks in the summer.
At estate sales he makes, tops, a couple grand
then trashes the rest: colanders, lawn chairs,
collections of ballpoint pens and flimsy matchbooks
in old coffee cans. You can’t take it with you
remains true, and it’s easy to tell
the mortal state of the one who’s gone.
Generally speaking, the living leave behind the most.
While the dead take the delicate bone
china sugar bowls and the gold Colby signet ring,
the snowbirds have no use for the melamine.
_____________________________________________________________
Nicole Chvatal writes property deeds and other witty things and lives in Maine. Her work has appeared in LEON, The Portland Press Herald newspaper, Pilgrimage, and Verseweavers. She is a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.
by Carol Berg
by Natasha Sajé
Summer Break
SWWIM Every Day will be on a publishing hiatus for the rest of July. Please check back on 8/2 for new poems. Until then, feel free to peruse our archives. If you don’t already, please subscribe to receive a poem a day, so you don’t miss a thing when we’re back up and running.
Weekly Shout Outs will also be on hold. Please continue to send us your wins, so we can celebrate you and your work when we return.
Submissions will remain open. Response times may be a bit delayed as we’re traveling, spending time with our families, writing, and working for SWWIM behind the scenes. Please stay tuned for an announcement about our 2021-22 reading series and other fun collabs.
Feel free to reach out to us via email or through social with any questions.
Happy summer! Stay cool!
XO
SWWIM Team
by Jenny Qi
My mother wanted flowers, fragrant
and lovely. So she flooded young seeds
until they boiled in midday heat,
and when they didn’t bloom, she thought
she could will blossoms with sullen silence.
My father wanted fruit trees, hardy
and useful. So he baked saplings in the sun
until they brittled into sand,
and when they didn’t ripen, he thought
he could shout them into submission.
At night, I snuck into the garden
and sang my pleas into the leaves.
Still, the gardenia blackened as if scorched,
the jasmine shot its stars into the ground,
the peaches puckered around unformed pits.
In the end, all we grew was oleander,
pink flesh burst from clay,
blowing sweet poison to the wind.
______________________________________________________________
Jenny Qi is the author of the debut poetry collection, Focal Point, winner of the 2020 Steel Toe Books Poetry Award. Her essays and poems have been published in The New York Times, Tin House, Rattle, and elsewhere, and she has received fellowships from Tin House, Omnidawn, Kearny Street Workshop, and the San Francisco Writers Grotto. She grew up in Las Vegas and now resides in San Francisco, where she completed her Ph.D. in Cancer Biology.
by Shannon Phillips
“…write your sexual life story in five sentences…
Then… do it again…
…a third time. A fourth.” – Melissa Febos
I
His name. His name. His name. My name. Breathe.
II
Three pregnancies, two children. The first. The last. The one.
I am not a math person.
III
I lost myself in a moment that didn’t belong to me. His voice made me do it.
His hands were too important. Night knows where to find me.
Just ask.
IV
It was late. It always is.
One night, while working on an English-Arabic translation project for class, I
typed “gasp” and then reverse-translated the first noun that came up. I was
given the phrase “longing for.” I got an A.
_____________________________________________________________
Shannon Phillips is a freelancer whose most recent chapbook was published by Small Fish Big Pond in 2019. She has an MFA in creative writing, and she is the editor at Picture Show Press.
by Lisa Rhoades
loves dandelions and stands
with an open globe,
and then blows and shrieks
and looks for the next. In the ball field
where we let the dogs run
the grasses have gone to seed,
the baseball diamond is unraked, the basketball
hoops removed, so that kids in quarantine
won’t try to play, won’t yell
and shout and jump this spring.
She won’t remember this. She won’t
remember how we held our breath.
The broad leaf plantain nods
its swollen bud, bindweed twists
through the chain links, a constellation of pink
clover swirls through the smaller white.
She picks flowers one by one.
She sends them flying
on the path of her breath.
______________________________________________________________
Lisa Rhoades is the author of The Long Grass (Saint Julian Press, 2020) and Strange Gravity (Bright Hill Press, 2004). Individual poems have appeared at Barrow Street, Poetry East, Prime Number, Saranac Review, South Carolina Review, and Psaltery & Lyre among others. In addition to teaching poetry, she works as a pediatric nurse in Manhattan. She lives on Staten Island with her spouse and their two children. Find her online at lisarhoades.com.
by Hannah Edwards
She said, "I'm afraid the fluorescent light
is going to fall on me,"
and I laughed, glancing up
at its cracked shield, the low, grating hum
“What if the mercury gas leaks out and—"
I told her she would live forever, then,
like an old Chinese king searching
for the secret to long life.
“I don't want to live that long. I don't know
how much more of that noise I can take.”
I looked up, but wasn’t wise enough
to see pointed shards, already falling.
______________________________________________________________
Hannah Edwards, in her spare time, is a teaching assistant at a local children’s theatre, where she demonstrates talents such as standing on “just one finger” or “breathing under water.” Recently, she and her girlfriend used 3D scanning and modeling to construct authentic Greek drama masks for productions of Oedipus Rex and Seven Against Thebes. Her previous publications include poems in Eclectica and Sugar House Review.
by Leah Claire Kaminski
The lilac leaves make hearts, beating,
flushed as the clouds with water and wind.
The oak in the next yard screams white.
In the Everglades, marl is burning.
If you look up to the blue-black
sky you can spend a lot of time.
Follow planes south until one day
clematis flares on the garage
and a raspberry’s red from soil and sun
and a lily furls its many tongues.
Until the smoke bush puffs red until
the daisies and their wet bald heads
bob in wind. In the Everglades
bobs the bladderwort. Small yellow
hungry head streaming, now burning.
If I flew there on that plane, its whine
in the westerly wind, in the drops
that stuff earth into air, push me
south, what would I see, except red
air, red tide, flooding city, no home.
______________________________________________________________
Leah Claire Kaminski's poems appear in places like Bennington Review, Fence, Massachusetts Review, Prairie Schooner, and ZYZZYVA. Dancing Girl Press published the chapbook, Peninsular Scar. Some of her recent honors include Grand Prize in the Summer Literary Seminars Fiction & Poetry Contest and a residency at Everglades National Park.
by Janice Lobo Sapigao
A coleus plant will bloom flowers when it is stressed and nearing the end of its life cycle. The plant knows it will die if continued exposure to unfavorable conditions continues, so it blooms to produce seed.
When you look for something,
you’ll find it where it isn’t.
I interpreted the tiny lime-colored
bouquet as growth. I sent its
silhouette to the group chat
proclaiming its bloom as mine.
When I wonder why my mother
preferred plastic plants, I think about
how it’s beautiful to want to give something
to the world they think they’re leaving
and how gardening websites suggest
pinching, which is cutting the flowers off
so the plant can spend its energy on
leaf growth—or wing span—or flight
to sprout is to flash a sign of life,
which is actually of near-death, of
the last thing she asked me for was
“coffee,” of compost, of cutting
Nurses and doctors’ emails often said our
beloved experience a surge of energy
When I wonder how else she will show up
I find her there flourishing.
______________________________________________________________
Janice Lobo Sapigao (she/her) is a poet from San José, CA. She is the author of two books of poetry, microchips for millions (Philippine American Writers and Artists, Inc., 2016) and like a solid to a shadow (Nightboat Books, 2017). She is the 2020-2021 Santa Clara County Poet Laureate.
by Grace Bauer
This time we’re in a city—
the Big Apple, let’s say, or some other metropolis
so brightly lit the sky loses all memory
of stars—except maybe the kind you might spot
getting out of a taxi or into a limo in front
of some swank hotel. Tonight, Ms. S
could be one of them in her little black something
so tight it’s almost nothing, almost skin, almost sin,
or the temptation to commit one. She loves
the slippery slope of social lubrication, glows
with the possibility of a room packed with bodies
pumped by music and an urge to be part of
this thing called crowd. It’s a sense of belonging
that goes beyond the group of friends she came with,
embraces every stranger who tilts their head
or waves a hand in animated small talk.
Ms. S feels her heart flood with a kind of affection
for the lot of them, the shaky enterprise of connection.
If she wanted, she knows she could find someone here
to spend the night with, but it’s the night
itself she decides she most desires.
She slips out the door—past the drinkers, the dancers,
the bouncers, the smokers huddled in a cloud
near the door, lets the music of the streets pull her forward—
block by block, with no place to arrive beyond motion.
Block after block: the steady whir
of traffic, the tap of her high heels on concrete,
the Are you kidding me’s? or then his boss said’s
of intermittent passersby, the occasional honk of horn.
Another block. And then a corner she turns—and suddenly
the moon is hanging bright as a disco ball between
two towering buildings. Full faced and shimmering.
Ms. S halts as if an invisible hand had grabbed her
at the nape. The upswept ‘do she’d secured with pins
and product shags around her shoulders, the fine hairs
on her arms thicken into pelt and the manicured nails
on her fingers and toes sharpen and curl into claws. She feels herself
coming alive inside the midnight of her body, the wilderness
of this city she claims as her turf. From far off,
she hears—is that a siren? Or an urgent call
from some pack that is beckoning her home?
What rises in her throat is beyond thought or language:
the wild that she is: calling back.
______________________________________________________________
Grace Bauer has published six collections of poems—most recently, Unholy Heart: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska/Backwaters Press, 2021). She is also co-editor of the anthology, Nasty Women Poets: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. Her poems, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals.
by Marissa Glover
Marissa Glover lives in Florida, where she teaches at Saint Leo University and serves as co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s creative work was most recently published in Rattle and her poem “The World Asks Too Much of Mothers,” first featured in Whale Road Review, is a 2020 Best of the Net Finalist. Her full-length poetry collection, Let Go of the Hands You Hold, was released by Mercer University Press on April 1, 2021. You can follow Marissa on Twitter and Instagram at _MarissaGlover_.
by Sanjana Nair
there were two birds
the dapper jay, the early robin
you were blue
I, fire-breasted
the day went haywire
I should have flown
you, loud with need
keeping me with the worms
the ground is not warm
this frosty, winter morning
the dirt
all I know
______________________________________________________________
Sanjana Nair is a tenured, full-time professor at the City University of New York’s John Jay College of Criminal Justice. She taught previously at New York University and Miami University and served as the first Treasurer for the Asian American Poetry organization Kundiman. Her poetry has been published in various places such as Spoon River Poetry Review, Fence Magazine, JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, The Southampton Review, and others. Deeply invested in collaboration, her work has been performed in multiple Emotive Fruition shows New York City and her piece, "The Lady Apple," a collaboration between poet and composer, was performed at Tribeca’s Flea Theater and featured on National Public Radio’s Soundcheck. She has appeared at Barnes & Noble in Union Square, NYC’s Rubin Museum and others. She resides with her family in Brooklyn.
by Hannah Stephenson
You must be a Very Good Child
the florist at the grocery store pronounces
to the man standing before her
buying flowers for his mother
On Valentine’s Day all the customers clutch roses
as they shop It is as if there is a wedding
somewhere in here and we are all in it but
skipped rehearsal so we don’t know where
to stand Red and pink foil balloons sway and spin
under the AC’s breeze Is this enough baby’s breath
the florist asks That’s perfect the customer says
but I think she could go on adding more
fleshing out this armful of blooms with soapsud
with froth with gathered frost
In fact I want a dozen bouquets composed
solely of baby’s breath Tiny bits of snow at the tips
of the skinny green strands A constellation
of condensation collected from the exhalations
of infants and toddlers and children and tweens
and all their future progeny Generations of babies
and growing humans safely securely breathing in and out
Sighing Yawning Propelling responses across the yard
to the listener at the back door announcing
Time to come back inside If we saw flowers in the currency
of time these blooms would be seconds and carnations minutes
and tulips half hours and roses hours
I have rediscovered a love for filler flowers
fresh or flattened Please fill an entire cart with them
and sail it back toward me The wheels whirring
an ode to the exalted ordinary
I am trying so hard not to let this poem end
in death for once So here goes nothing
Today may you show a picture of a heart
to those you adore as paltry proof
May you adorn your hair with pink
and ribbons May your flowers taste rain
as you rush to the car and as they dream
their way into the big dark they were born
to become may they not be alone May they
carry with them the memory of light
______________________________________________________________
Hannah Stephenson is a poet and editor living in Northern Virginia. She is the author of Cadence and In the Kettle, the Shriek. Her writing has appeared in The Atlantic, The Huffington Post, 32 Poems, Vela, The Journal, and Poetry Daily. You can visit her online at The Storialist.
by .chisaraokwu.