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Isabel Alvear

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

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

A beautifully large, rambling house Silly children spilling out of rooms Screaming, playing, laughing Spending the seasons with los primos. Secrets, whispers, and giggle-fits Dozing mostly into morning light Malibu Barbie and VHS under the tree Christmas pancakes as the snow flaked. Scary storms whipping in springtime The ancient tree knocking windows Toys bobbing from basement floods Rubber botas stuck dry in the front lawn. Screaming laughter, endless chases Fishi