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Isabel Alvear

When I was attending university in the mid 90’s, I was introduced to rock ‘n roll, weed, and Buddhism, somewhat simultaneously. A Mexican friend of mine, who loved going by his anglicized name, George, shoved David Bowie, Pink Floyd, Prince and Queen into my consciousness. He was appalled that my Ecuadorian-Canadian upbringing had left me ignorant of an entire genre, and made fun of me about it until I was shamed into buying a bunch CD’s at Tower Records. George, along with t

Frightened from Halloween Weeping, I stood in between My parents glancing at things My brother win at The Rings An original Carnival game The Haunted House behind Bottle necks ringed blind My brother wins first prize A lady frog of giant size Tearfully, I give her a name “Froggy” journeyed with us sibs Joining stories and other fibs Dragged a-top a skateboard too Froggy by me, just like glue Tucked in bed, always tame Drooled, stained, eyeball loose Loving Froggy, epically p

Like a dead body anchored In the bottom of my belly Is where all the trauma of My Life Sits. It moves, bobbing silently Pulsating as my digestion Desperately attempts to Flush It Down. Shifting minutely Stifling my inability To lose the spare tire of Anxiety Around My belly. I can feel a new shifting The dead lump lifting up To my conscious surface I cough Outbursts Of anger And tears. The measure of vulnerability Coming up and out of me Is the cor

My dad was a study in anger. His mood could manipulate the people around him. That’s the power of charisma for good or evil. When at his most charming, people fell around him like dominos—his easy chatter, gregariousness, affability and generosity had him winning at almost every game. He maintained his Spanish accent that under social situations, was like standing under an umbrella of warming jasmine in the night: exotic, romantic, lingering and intriguing. All fuel for the n

This month, I am pleased to feature my cousin and guest poet Lupita-Eyde Tucker. Lupita Eyde-Tucker writes and translates poetry in English and Spanish, has studied poetry at Bread Loaf, is a Fellow at The Watering Hole, and was selected as a 2018 AWP Writer to Writer Mentee. Her poems and translations have recently appeared in Baltimore Review, SWWIM, Muse/ A Journal, Nashville Review, Small Orange, Aquifer, The Acentos Review, The Florida Review, Contrapuntos VI, and Asympt

A Short Story I’m at a point where I’m getting closer to understanding why it’s hard to replicate my abuelita’s spinach and potato soup. I’ve tried five different potatoes. Three different sizes. I’ve played with mostly potato and some yucca. I’ve tried sautéing the spinach in garlic first; adding it last, right before serving. That’s been the closest. Also, the onion counts. Yellow over white or red. The funny thing about memories, like when I was standing on my tip-toes in