“stolen saints� zine issue #001 july 2019 miami, fl created by sofia soriano featuring poems by deirdre cardona hannah kiefer & sofia soriano cover artwork by sofia soriano layout design by sofia soriano #stolensaints
CARDONA
Deirdre Cardona is an umbrella flipped inside-out. She’s worked as a poetry editor for Cypress Dome Literary Magazine. You can find her poetry in Roseblood Magazine and Back Patio Press. instagram: @radioheadasss twitter: @queengizard
PUSH THE DAWN AWAY Less sex appeal. More vulnerability. Look into my eyes and find the love behind messy eyelashes, a heavy grin that shrinks gradually, the token weight of an arm gone to sleep, a steady decline in aura— lavender swirl mixed with a pale lunar glow, breath that grows few and far between. The moon shines bright & between my thighs you are faced with what you are— what you’re afraid of becoming.
LOVE NOTE FOR HEMINGWAY We are boundless and bitter, and I want all of you. Gleaming, golden wine spills from a smile to pool at our feet. Dionysus will throw inhibition to the wind, join us as we run through a vineyard lit by the stars, feet kissed by leaves and twigs. Empty promises litter the floor like pages of a failed writer’s feeble attempts at truth. You grew on me like twining vine on a masonry wall. Now, we turn emotion to poetry, stressing and slacking syllables on an old mattress, drunk on starlight or cosmic vibration. We are wearing moonbeams and we walk, hand in hand back to sea, back to Genesis, back to nothing.
SOME DAYS, I JUST CAN’T GET OUT OF BED And why should I when the icy infinite stream of zeroes and ones pull me in farther and farther and farther while the clock’s hands smack my eyes— spellbound and bloodshot. Spiders crawl into my mouth to die. The weight of my words keeps me pinned beneath the weight of the world. I’m Atlas’s underdeveloped cousin. Nobody told me that leaving the womb would be unspectacular as a raindrop in the ocean, that I was an eyelash scratching the world’s cornea. that I was a spoon stuck in a garbage disposal.
Kiefer
Hannah Kiefer is a horicultural science student and watermelon enthusiast. She preaches killing your grasses and planting natives. She has been emo since 2011.
Sanitation Salvation There is something so pure about running a bath while slowly sinking deeper into the scalding water, incinerating the very top layer of sinned-skin cells. Porous surfaces sigh and relieve themselves of unwanted mess. I close my eyes, letting the spring dampness trickle down my nose and over my rosey lips. My clear mind is lost in rising vapor, as a monk dedicated to the feeling of warm moist air sliding past the roof of his nostrils. I feel about a bath the same way the saints and nuns feel about their god, a haven to run back to when a challenge presents itself. It is easier to strip naked and lower myself into self blessed tubs with burning sage and milky bubbles than to go to church and sit in a confessional with no immediate results of filth removed from my skin. A bath is a homecoming to the warmth of a womb -rebirth is inevitable. All ruined the moment my toes touch the laminate floors, back in grime and sand. The heat drives everyone mad. Who can judge me?
Picking Season* Rain bounces off leaves The blueberry firmly grasps Her motherly branch.
Youth A skeleton hand displays the jewelry choices to begin my day. Her ring finger embraced in a silver hug from one of Saturn’s seven crowns. Discovered in a market on dry Israel streets, a gift presented in a grey box from a young man wishing to elope with a previous self many winters ago. The seasons that followed the first December, with the cuff slipped on my finger, it began to tighten and constrict like a mouse in grasp of a starved anaconda. I was choking and gasping for air, pleading to be free of the crate he placed and caged me, as if I was the venomous one. He left our sandy home right before the leaves baked in the sun and fell on beach shores. He deserted me, in my new home, cramped and isolated. Fooled to believe this was the life I wanted. He lovingly whispered “Wait for me.” As a dog would flip and sit for its master, as did I. Patiently, I waited in darkness, watching through small slits, the patterns of feet pressing into sandy Earth, leveled by rushing waves wanting to keep order in their vasthome. There were girls in bikinis running into the sea, calling my name, puffing slim joints of skunky greens and lying beneath the magma rolling in the heavens. The day came when he returned. He opened the box to spit in my face, slammed me shut, and tossed me in ocean currents to wished me luck. Saltwater loosened the grip of the serpent twisted on my finger. The crate bursted as a passion flower bloomed, granting freedom. Baptized in diluted Dead Sea, I was Venus erupting from God’s shell. Three springs since, currently I stare at the diamonds dug deep in the ring. How can a stone be more precious than moments spent exploring rather than be imprisoned like a fox in a box?
SORIANO
Sofia Soriano is a Brazilian born musician, designer, and writer. She is one half of indie rock duo Visual Art Department, music writer for Honeyed Music, and a radio nerd. You can find her work on her websire sofiasoriano.info. instagram: @sofiainsuper8 twitter: @_sofiasoriano
The Sun is a Dreadful Ruler The sun is a dreadful ruler Demanding a constant bow. Blinding power Stretched throughout. In the refuge, I could see, The face no longer sweet, As Cain breathed heavy next to me. Forgive me, John, I thought so low of thee. His smile was tender As he tore through my limbs. The gentle flower I’d wished to be Laid dismantled at my feet. I played dead for a week He marked the ground around me. The white flakes kept me company Until he found his new Calliope. The outline eroded and I was set free No longer a gentle flower, But a woman with two feet.
Eden was destroyed in a forest fire I was too hungry to taste The salt dripping from your lips. Now I’m the Sahara, Clinging to every drop of your spit. Now my lips can no longer bear to be together Separated by a dead cell partition But still holding out arms for Eden Like a child, On some precarious mission. As I crawled through those streets. The sheets fell before me, The choir sang The sign on the tv, EDEN WAS DESTROYED IN A FOREST FIRE Ashes washed to the sea.
There are Snakes in this Garden There are snakes in this garden. Dropping from the trees Inching away from the rotting apples, Squeeze the poison from the sagging skin. Lies leach like lacquer to the labyrinth underground Into the lakes Till there are serpents all around No escaping this silent death So take your final breath.
#stolensaints