ff-retina-iconFANTASTIC FLORIDAS // The online journal of Burrow Press,
expanding the boundaries of Florida literature.

 

POETRY // 06.02.20

Once, I Was New To America’s West

Ashley Inguanta

When you leave this life, this fast and bright
existence in the Mojave, for the swamplands
of home, you can’t help but wonder if the Florida
alligators will eat you alive…

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I feel like I want to apologize for the quality of these postcards. I wish they had been better ones, and that I could have sent you images of sunsets and palm trees and dazzling flamingos.

Mouse

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Mermaid Camp

I’m an eel until I inhale water—then I am messy, lightheaded—like after too much laughing or kissing.

Nakba

This language tastes like songs of my sedo and before, days when land was soft beneath bare feet, before bombshells bore into ground, before bullet skins showered seeds in the dust.

The Bees

It was the first week into her second trimester, and here she was, smoking a cigarette and filling her stomach with bees.

How the Devil Finds Out

It happened on the corner of 147thand Miller, beneath the long branches of an oak hanging over the corner. It happened often enough— usually to white kids crossing U.S.1 in front of the University of Miami or other tourists on The Beach—but seldom in this residential area, and never on this intersection.

Amber Stream

He fished the Suwannee: slow- flowing, tea-stained, wild, where the river drops through limestone and revives itself.

What Blood

Mr. Chuck Stonehill walked over from next door and told me he found a tackle-box, a bullet, and a rubber by the picnic table in the backyard under the palm tree between our rusting beach trailers.

Schnozzle

I was so innocent that my first thought was he didn’t know he was exposed. But the way he was staring at me so fixedly soon made me realize it was on purpose.

An Excerpt from Radio Dark

The streets of Memphis’ town had been orange groves when he was a boy. He remembered as, one by one, the groves were bulldozed to make room for neighborhoods, for the people from up north, finally tired of the long winters, to settle into their respiratory diseases and neurological disorders.

Lonely Boy Fights

The ending to my story in Orlando flickers. I thought I knew how the story would end when I first set out to write this series. The scene would be framed at the Orlando International Airport...
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"I have touched, you know, fantastic Floridas
Mingling the eyes of panthers, human-skinned, with
flowers!
And rainbows stretched like endless reins
To glaucous flocks beneath the seas."

–Arthur Rimbaud