Delayed Homecoming | Jayati Das

Image: Philip Myrtorp

Delayed Homecoming

For Tina and Ra

There are quite a few miles that crevice you from home,

Like the zip of your suitcase that flies between hope and not-hope.

I can only imagine how the fridge door must be slamming, unlike the one back here—

Extended supplies shunting faster than Turner’s baby,

The one that cries but never comes.

Do you wake each day to a finite line

And trace back the rhino’s trail 

You had smiled about the other day?

Does Bishop speak clearer now

And blur your vocabulary?

I am afraid I will forget your smiling hair

And the exact shade of your red lipstick

(The traces are already starting to drift).

Lie to me when I ask about happiness

Or perhaps halt the track of my question

(‘Are you home yet?’)

With a whistle or a red flag,

For then I can at least begin to unmemorise

Your face greeting me in some departure lounge.

Jayati Das is a research scholar from Tezpur University, India, and holds a Master’s degrees in English Literature frotm the University of Delhi. Her areas of research include representations of the Vietnam War, masculinity studies, and queer cinema. She has won over a dozen prizes in creative writing at the college and university levels. Several of her poems and stories have been published in The Assam Tribune, The Sentinel, and e-magazines like The Golden Line, including a story in an anthology titled DU Love. Her published research includes essays on the Mizo poet, Mona Zote, race in Othello, and on Pedro Almodóvar’s cinema.

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

The Idukki Dam | Anu Lal

Image: Tobias Keller

The Idukki Dam

The British built it, upon our home,
In Idukki, amidst the feral mountains Of Western Ghats*,
This structure—a leviathan of construction,
Which they said was
The symbol of modernity,
An accomplishment of human effort,
This sterile, dark, tearing off the heart,
Of the Western Ghats,
The dam with which they also ruled,
Nature with alacrity.
For two hundred years, the empire governed
Our desires and hopes, destinies and dreams.
Our home enchained,
Under the hoof of the emperor’s horse,
Dying, rising, dying again, rising again,
Like an old creature heaving for its last breath.
But the old and spent
Doesn’t impress the empire,
And it left this land, its nature,
And the people, with a tale
Of condescending kindness,
Letting the “young” nation self-govern,
With warnings of possible schisms.
But with general consolations
At the possible victories gained:
Like the railways, the dams, the roads,
And the democratic spirit.
The siren of the train is bearable,
And so is the sluggishness
Of the democratic system,
And bureaucracy, but the dam—
A silent monstrosity of Idukki,
Governing the Ghats with its grey bosom,
Serving mostly electric power-supplies.
It’s old, with dark lines of age growing
On the ramparts of the reservoirs,
Mossy, slippery wall, waiting—
For its final fall, every Monsoon,
Drowning our dwelling places
Underneath the dammed up spirit
Of the wild and tortured river,
Surpassing human alacrity.
So when the rains ravage,
We hear the echoes, of death—
Riding the horse of the old emperor,
Upon the ramparts of the old walls,
With the fear of death,
Still governing us.

[1] Idukki is one of the southern restrictions in Kerala state,
India, which is situated in the Western Ghats.

[2] Western Ghats is a chain of mountains bordering
Kerala’s western side, which is known as ecologically fragile.

Anu Lal is a writer from India. He has written extensively about his homeland, the South Indian State named Kerala. His works include poetry, short stories, novella, novel, and nonfiction. His major works include: The Notions of Living, The Notions of Healing (anthologies), Stories We Live, Thalassery Biryani (Short story collections) and Life After the Floods (nonfiction). Instagram: @authorlal

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

Portrait of a Bedroom Wall | Andrew Walker

Image: Zoltan Kovacs

Portrait of a Bedroom Wall

We do not push the walls out
but instead pull the room in, drink
our already small space. My clothes,
washed and bagged, are still too big
for this disappearing body—it’s like
a magic trick: blink and you’ll miss
me. I’m not tangible anymore, these
bed bugs eating away more than just
our bedspread. Touch this translucent skin
and maybe you’ll find something
stronger than the body I see before me
in tinted windows, in tagged pictures.
I think about House of Leaves, the home
that did not know what size it was,
about the men who found themselves
less than they thought they knew, the codes
hidden, dark filled with whatever meaning
the reader can pour from themselves

            I mistakenly called this place a home
            I walled myself in
            there are no doors here
            this is not an entrance. 

Andrew Walker is a writer living and working in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in HAD, Crack the Spine, Eckleburg, paperplates, Apricity Press and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @druwalker94 or on his website at

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

Suburban Mandala | Boyd Bauman

Image: Aerial Nomad

Suburban Mandala

Om of the lawnmower motor,
the meditative motion begins,
this tracing of the sacred square.

Castes least enlightened outsource,
content to admire aesthetics from afar.
The devout deny such urges,
don robes of an ancestral order:
button down western shirts,
before mounting mini John Deeres,
while those nearest nirvana self-propel,
lean step by measured step into each swath
as if laying down something native
on a Kansas prairie.

Cut grass like incense
awakens the senses.

Emptying themselves of the envy within
the outward gaze across the fence,
these Midwestern monks
are quite conscious of their lot,
rectangular orbits mere representations
of the workings and wonder
of the cosmos.

Prostration is sometimes required,
negotiating with the earth
over weeds noxious, obnoxious,
other blessed imperfections.

A single blade clings to the sweat
on an arm,
the rest released to the currents
of June rain or a.m. sprinklers,
the mandala regenerating perpetually.

Each steward inhales,
accepting this perfection
embracing this transience and a want
for nothing.

Boyd Bauman grew up on a small ranch south of Bern, Kansas.  His dad was a storyteller and his mom the family scribe.  He has published two books of poetry:  Cleave and Scheherazade Plays the Chestnut Tree Café.  After stints in New York, Colorado, Alaska, Japan, and Vietnam, Boyd now is a librarian and writer in Kansas City, inspired by his three lovely muses.   Visit at

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

I Am Trying to Remember If I Married For Love | Kimberly Ann Priest

Image: Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery

I Am Trying to Remember If I Married For Love

Long beams are carried in on strong arms,
belts fitted with tools and the Oklahoma sun
warming the backs of the heads of workers
remodeling the house across the street
though it’s colder than usual for these parts
in February—even a dusting of snow. The grass
crunches beneath their boots, dry, and blonde
like a young woman’s hair, as I watch them
unload their truck, turning toward one another
now and then to chat or chuckle or pat a back
before lifting another board. The windows
of this home must be original, the same panes
of glass it was born with and I wonder
if they will be replaced, if the paper that surely
continues to adorn the walls, peeling,
will be stripped, its bones re-fleshed in fresher
hues, if the organs that pump life into toilets,
showers, and sinks, into outlets, lights,
hairdryers, and phones will undergo surgery.
How long until the porch is secure
and the roof healed of all its leaking? A few
bi-fold doors lean against the home’s old siding—
closets, it seems, have been opened and rendered
doorless as heaps of a former life are gathered
in piles of trash that exit the home in large bags.
Down the street at the halfway house,
men smoking cigarettes also observe
this pageantry with me and I wonder if they
are thinking what I am thinking—that someone
bought that house with all its imperfections,
after an assessment, not knowing exactly
how the whole thing will turn out. The sky
grows overcast and snow begins to fall again
so the men at the halfway house drop embers
unto the sidewalk to go indoors
as the workers hood their heads and continue
working. I pull my blanket tighter over
my shoulders letting the cool flakes fall against
my face and litter the doorstep around me.
I can’t leave now no matter what happens—
this is the part of the story I still like.

Kimberly Ann Priest is the author of Slaughter the One Bird (Sundress Publications 2021) as well as chapbooks The Optimist Shelters in Place (Harbor Editions 2022), Parrot Flower (Glass 2021), Still Life (PANK 2020), and White Goat Black Sheep (FLP 2018). Winner of the 2019 Heartland Poetry Prize in the New Poetry from the Midwest anthology by New American Press, she is currently an Assistant Professor of First-Year Writing at Michigan State University, an associate editor for the Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry and the James Tolan Writer in Residence at Writer’s House PGH. Find more of her work at

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

Progress, Mexico | Dustin King

Image: Josh Withers

Progress, Mexico


The stray dogs bite. There’s glass in the sand,
too worn to cut a toe. A toddler giggles
running from her family toward the
waves. They urge her back. On the beach
road, I can’t tell if the sound of a car
approaching from behind is the surf until
headlights flash. The gate of the abandoned
school for “incapacitados” is chained shut,
has been for months, sargassum and plastic
washing under. Classroom walls of cracked
concrete. Graffiti on graffiti. A phantom yell
of gringo! Spitting rain. It will pour any minute.
Then it doesn’t. The yacht club sells pizzas
to expats but no one is hungry tonight. Wind
scatters plastic chairs around tables as if
customers were full and anxious to get
home, then as if the patio were raided by
stray dogs. Each palm tree has a personal
hair dryer. The expats, like stray dogs,
growl at newcomers, bark at each other
into the night. The expats feed the stray dogs.
Cheapest alarm system I ever had, says
one to another. A pack gathers in front of
his second home like hyenas, vicious, grinning.
Testicles, teats, purpled, withered fruit clinging
to the vine. They shit where they want. A passerby
steps in it, curses. A passerby kicks out but
we see who is really afraid. A passing car
accelerates, achieves revenge. The corpse
of a stray dog in a ditch stinking until
it won’t anymore. Expats think the pandemic
a hoax or conspiracy initiated by Jews.
The expats are assholes, says an expat, but
they are old. They die quick. One, on his
moto, was run over by a microbus last week.
He exploded like a McDonalds ketchup package.


I speak to a loved one on the phone. She
insists, there is something you’re not telling me.
Twists and flecks of iridium, extraterrestrial
metal, shocked quartz and glass beads discovered
in the rock core. Water-winged children hurling
themselves into cenotes, earth’s empty eye sockets,
prehispanic graveyards, skeletons fished
out from 100 meters deep, bats zig-zagging
over water underground. I’m alone in the
port city of Progreso. Chicxclub, site of
climate disruption, mass extinction, ancient
rerouting of life. A meteor with the power of
1,000 atomic bombs. We won’t give the
universe time for another go. A seagull missing
a foot lands near my dinner, gingerly using the
stump for balance, swaying more than usual in
the breeze. A flamingo limping across a salty lake.
A stray dog hopping. An ex-pat in a wheelchair.
Landmine in Afghanistan. Crowded hovels
with no running water inland. Abandoned
mansions on the coast. Mold, erosion,
dilapidation. A hurricane isn’t at fault.
The money ran out or virus. Crackling bass
and reggaetón and shouts from inside one
shell of a building that isn’t theirs, the
windows boarded up and papered over.
From the terrace three floors up a young
Mexican points to the liter of beer in his hand
and yells, ¡Súbate, Güero! I pass through a door
with a busted lock.

A group of 20-somethings chugging beer
around an empty pool. Racing to
inebriation. Pulling ahead in the race to
elude annihilation. Assembled from various
regions of Mexico, here to construct a suburbia
of sorts outside the port city, an international
village. They pass me a joint, I bum them
English cigarettes too expensive for Mexico.
They push a phone with a PowerPoint
presentation in front of me. Condos with
rooftop gardens, windmills, and solar panels
resembling Mayan pyramids constructed over
the ruins of Mayan pyramids long ago
chewed, swallowed, and still being digested by
jungle. Graphene super metal and recycled
plastics. Bubble tech and defoaming. Optimum
insulation and acoustics, less CO2 release. Jargon,
gospel, babble of sustainability. New lingo for
the industry, the lexicon, the public imagination.
Off the grid. Supposedly free from the control
and corruption of government, of cartels. I say it
sounds like a cult and an interior designer giggles
wiggling her pointer finger up and down, says
sí, sí, como Charley Manson. Voice automated
everything—your entertainment, your coffee
pot, your bidet. All-inclusive. More amenities
promised than a liberal arts college. A Burger
King. Probably a mini-Target. The promise
of consumerism preserved amid the crash
of exterior markets. Top priority: Security.
AK-47s, M-16s, Uzis. Bulletproof vests and
jackets that look like you’re going to church
or brunch. Fences with barbed wire as tall
as border walls. Here in the shell of an ex-expat’s
vacation home the other American dream of
the gated community lifted, romanticized,
enhanced. Ultra-militarized. Elon Musk might
support the project,
claims an energy specialist.
Living there will be like working for Google,
boasts the jungle rave DJ. There is opportunity
in crisis,
they add. They have acquired the land.
Started construction. Convinced expats to invest,
possibly retire there. I jokingly ask the CEO, Who
will be eaten first when the apocalypse comes?

He nods toward a stray dog eying us from below
and as serious as climate change says,
could be any of us.

Dustin King teaches Spanish and runs a small organization that provides aide to undocumented community in Richmond, Va. His poems appear in Blood and Bourbon, Ligeia, Tilted House, Drunk Monkey and other magazines. He most recently made the longlist in the 2021 UK national poetry competition.

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

Days of Red and Gold | David Estringel

Image: Jakub Dziubak

Days of Red and Gold

Sittin’ at the kitchen table—cup of black coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—I look past catches of blue paint and the remains of flies on screen door mesh, toward the sorghum field just beyond the ranch gate. Death’s stillness—a gravity all its own—has seeped into every corner, permeated the grout of tiled countertops and spaces in between fruit magnates on the old, white Frigidaire like the smell of rabbit in the oven or hints of storm riding out on the breeze. Life’s left the room—no pulse under these linoleum tiles—it seems, leaving it darker, a bit colder, despite morning’s come to call through the window above the sink. I take another sip—bitter on the tongue—then a drag (or two), finding myself—absent-minded–fingering the contents of a chipped, pink and white bowl of green stamp china (of which she was so proud). Four pennies, two dimes, and a nickel. Two rusty paper clips. A half-used packet of B&C headache powder. A dead fly. I remember eating from it—sweetened raspberries, red and golden, from bushes in the garden—when I was small. How I’d toss them back in grubby fistfuls, between chokes on the juice, as honied explosions—sour and sweet—took me to Heaven and back then ‘round, again, while she looked out the screen door, tossing hair from her eyes—cup of black coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—staring at my father working in the field, beyond.

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, Lahar, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Somos En Escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House in 2022. David has written five poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, as well as Golden Calves and Blue (coming 2023). His new book of micro poetry little punctures will be released in December 2022. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

House of Blues | Susan Carman

Image: Drew Beamer

House of Blues

She eyes the tired roadhouse
tucked between junk yards filled
with car doors and still-good hubcaps,

hickory smoke heavy on night air,
rubbing against her like a cat.
Inside, past shadowy booths

grimy with time, guitars draw her in
with a walkin’ blues line,
shuffle through 12 bars like they mean it.

Ya feelin’ blue? the drummer growls,
and the crowd spills onto the dance floor
where she joins women with tight jeans

and tight smiles, moving alone, faces painted
hopeful. When the tune slows,
she takes the hand of a sad-eyed guy—

they slide and sway, his breath
on her neck a sweet refrain
in a song of love gone wrong.

Susan Carman is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and served as poetry editor for Kansas City Voices. Her poetry appeared most recently in I-70 Review, Heartland! Poetry of Love, Resistance &  Solidarity, and the anthologies Curating Home and The Shining Years. Retired from non-profit management, she lives in Overland Park, Kansas, where she is an ESL volunteer.

This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology, 
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.

South Broadway Press: Call for Full-Length Poetry Manuscripts

South Broadway Press 5

We are a publisher of books that matter.

South Broadway Press is now accepting submissions of full-length poetry manuscripts. We are specifically requesting socially impactful pieces. Yes, all art is socially impactful in its own way, but we are seeking strongly conscious content with undeniable vision. Artists from underrepresented and marginalized populations are especially encouraged to contribute their diverse beliefs and perspectives.

We care about publishing and promoting a safe, inclusive literary community and believe we can positively influence the world in this way. Send us your compelling narratives, your concrete imagery, your similes and metaphors…your truth. 

Please send us your truth only if it is a poetry manuscript between 60 and 100 pages!

Please email a 10-page sample and 250-word description of your book to

along with your picture and a brief bio.

Please put “Poetry Manuscript 2020 – – ” in the subject line.

Manuscript submissions will be open through November, 2020.

Please email your manuscript sample as a .doc or a .pdf.

Please include a brief bio including social media / links.

What We Look For

South Broadway is in reference to the South Broadway region of Denver, a long-wide strip of road that dives straight towards downtown Denver. South Broadway is lined with eclectic shops ranging from sex shops, to anarchist book stores, to local craft breweries, to dive bar concert venues. South Broadway is gritty, it is alive, it’s the kind of neighborhood where you will see the same faces again and again. This sense of inclusivity and eclectic attitudes has been a large influence on the tone of our journal.

Writers and artists of color, as well as LGBTQIA+ folx are highly encouraged to submit. As a journal, we understand that the United States, as well as much of the developed world, has been created as a white patriarchal Christian heterosexual capitalist landscape, and this has been oppressive and violent for a long time to many groups of people. Part of our mission is to challenge these doctrines for better ones. We believe in love, and that love often looks radical during its time.

We believe one of the most important parts of the human experience is storytelling. That storytelling is a major vessel for human growth, one which fosters compassion and empathy. We like pieces that are intimate, pieces that challenge the status quo, pieces that our readers will be thinking about when they are driving home late at night. We believe in creating a rich journal and a space where most everyone feels comfortable sharing their experiences. We like humor, especially when that humor serves a bigger purpose.

What Publication Means

Being published by South Broadway Press means distribution online, at many bookstores throughout Colorado and occasionally outside of Colorado. We will promote your book through our social media outlets, distribution at local Colorado bookstores and have your book for sale at any expos, events, etc. that we attend. Your book will not be available for sale on Amazon.

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I had a wife and could not keep her – Rhienna Renèe Guedry

Image: Kennet. William Morris, Morris & Co

When you ventured out on
dates with men, we didn’t talk about it
what was there to discuss? It was something you
thought I couldn’t give you
even though my arms were out and so was I
your whole deal was believing yourself to be
too broken to offer your chalice like the
gift of drink it was and not think of curses.
I was always onto you. I played the game—truth or dare,
poison or water, top or bottom— and followed the rules
our friends warned me to take it down a notch to
wait for you to call me for a change.
That’s the thing about the “I told you so’s”
we were as rare as hens’ teeth
ear to a glass against our thin apartment wall
you slipped the l-word in and out then took it
back like the slapping of a bug bite against your shoulder.
I cleared my throat—my heart was so far down it
made the grossest noise to call it back to the cavity where
it belonged ‘cos no one has ever loved you
without a list of reasons why they shouldn’t

Rhienna Renèe Guedry is a writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Empty Mirror, Bitch Magazine, Screen Door, Scalawag Magazine, Taking the Lane, and elsewhere on the internet. Find more about her projects at or @chouchoot on Twitter.