womb in purgatory – ingrid calderon

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(a spin-off of Eggs in Purgatory)


1 tablespoon of extra-virgin sacrosanct
½ medium ego, chopped
1 cup of depression
1 clove of laughter, minced
¼ teaspoon of anger
1 teaspoon suicide
½ teaspoon freshly ground prayers
¼ cup fresh cemetery dirt, finely chopped
4 large wombs
¼ cup grated afterlife


Drizzle sacrosanct into skillet set over medium heat.

Once it begins to shimmer, add in the ego and cook until tender, about 3 minutes.

Stir in the anger, minced laughter, and depression.

Sprinkle the teaspoon of suicidal ideation and allow the mixture to thicken, about 5 minutes.

Break a womb into a small bowl and using a large spoon, make an indention in the angry mixture. Repeat with the remaining wombs.

Top with grated afterlife and prayers.

Cover skillet and cook until the wombs set and are cooked to the desired level of doneness.

Remove skillet from the heat.

Sprinkle with remaining cemetery dirt and serve.


Ingrid is a Salvadoran poet & refugee residing in Los Angeles. She’s published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Memoirmixtapes, Punch Drunk Press, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L’Éphémère Review amongst others etc… Guilty of four full-length poetry books entitled ‘Things Outside’, ‘Wayward’ ‘Zenith’ & ‘Ablution.’ She invites you to stalk her on Twitter at @BrujaLamatepec and to read her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com

Photo: “Tidy notes led me astray”, also by Ingrid Calderon

two poems – ingrid calderon

annie spratt


sweet lanterns, tender—pendulous ryles,
it lies, teeth clenched, between the gaps
youth lives somewhere, but not, if all—defiled
a vain tongue speaks, of past and present traps

a full beak drivels and remembers
what being thirsty brought
a sliver of the page in embers
old love seems to enjoy the knot

pitch and strike to sever hope
we sit upright on hardened wood
a foul beyond a wall, a slope—
he shows me teeth, undressed manhood/

age shows in corners/on mouths that curve
a habit earned and eaten/well deserved


we see it, after an earthquake
the fragility—
in hot weather, we see it
we pulse with the sun and curse our impermanence
those quakes, and that sun, dance with our fate—
they twitch for our sanity—
they are contractions in our veins—yes—
these quakes—this heat—
they yearn to adapt to our digest—
and beg us to smash our bones delicately against another—and remain

SBGS December

Poet, amateur photographer, ex-Mormon & Civil-War refugee from a country you probably know nothing about (El Salvador), Ingrid Calderon made Los Angeles her home, and clawed her way through the English language. Most of her writing focuses on interweaving these subjects whenever possible. She has been published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L’Éphémère Review etc… After writing three chapbooks, Things Outside, Wayward, and Zenith, she continues to scribble nonsense into verse.  She hopes it resonates. Find her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com & on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec

Photo: Annie Spratt