JUKE
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JOINT
Daughter Standing Spray
I never wanted to be anyone’s
dead daughter, daughter
in the water, in the fire,
in the earth, falling through
air, blue and pink ribbons
trailing, red roses and tissue
paper Mother, Sister, Daughter
standing spray beside me
in a white casket, white
wedding dress, lace like spiderwebs
taut before the trap and
struggle, fight, taught before —
Listen to me, I come
from the sperm who dove first
into golden yolk, I left my brethren
and I will leave you too, you
and your sugar and spice burning
cannot touch me. I am the start,
the beginning, the exhale, I’ve been
waiting for —me.
Trans Boy Sits Alone
In The Library At Lunch
In another body,
in another life,
I was the tallest
guy at the table —
caught your eye
ordering a burger, please,
fries and one teenage girl,
please, in a red and white
burgerhop cap, please.
I’ll leave my number
on the receipt for you
so later we’ll be on
the old bench of my dad’s
pickup, two kids
under high school stars —
sucking your lips, you grab
my crotch and I don’t push
you away, I pull you
in, you pull me in,
over and over in
another body, in
another life.
Swan Song
Every night she’d unwrap, pull
the pond of blood-soaked cotton
from her toes. Each foot a swan splayed long
with a broken neck— You wanted
a ballerina, like your grandmother,
Josephine, spun tight in pink satin and tulle—
naked, no, stuffed
into blue tights, that storming hive
of little girls, plié, plié, plea, plea,
please, please, please, you taught me
to dance with burned face, throat full
of worms, taught me to beg
for release.
Fancy
I wonder what it feels like
to feel fancy. To know
you look good, to have everything
fit just right. It’s hard
to imagine. I mean, what
would I even wear? No. I’m not
that little boy being wrestled
into the long black and purple
dress, the burr of acrylic tights.
And after, red-eyed, bleating,
It’s ok. Any boy would wear
this if he had to wear a dress.
Purple like Dontello’s mask,
elbow and knee pads. Protection
while he cracks skulls, bashes
his staff over the congregation of purple
foot soldiers. Sunday School
lasted all day back then. That
small white room where we learned
about the rich man who dressed in fancy
purple robes and feasted despite
knowing a hollow bellied man was dying
at his front gate. We in our crisp little
hats and buckled shoes were told how
the rich man went to hell, purple robes
and all, where he lives to this day, scorched,
not a drop of water, mercy, for his withered,
greedy tongue.
Court Castaños grew up adventuring along the Kings River in the San Joaquin Valley. After moving to Santa Cruz to study art Castaños now spends time writing poetry and exploring the redwoods. Previous work published in The San Joaquin Review, Boudin of the McNeese Review, and crazyhorse among others. Read more at courtcastanos.com
Clarissa Bravo is an artist from Mexico and there is no better way to describe her work than cute, funny, and colorful on some days as well as experimental pop-art on others, depending on how she's feeling. For her, color contrast in her art is like eye candy and it's mainly inspired by pop-art culture. The most important thing for her when creating art is to play as if she were a kid, that way everything flows. Art has to be fun, if not, what's the whole point?