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WOLF JAW MAGAZINE LIFE DURING WARTIME

ISSUE 1 MARCH 2021

Dear Reader, This is Wolf Jaw Magazine. Here, we're radically free, whip smart, and receptive—to the wisdom of our higher selves, to strangers and newcomers, to critical feedback and refinement of ideas. I founded this zine because I wanted to read more poetry being written today. Like many of you, I too have been sick in the clutches of social media. This zine is a counterpoint to the snippets and cutsie shackles of those media. Here we are radically free. Here we format our poems how we see fit. Here there is room for stanzas and long lines and complexity. Here we can maintain the integrity of a poem's enjambment. We maintain that we are whip smart. We bask in sunlight and bathe in snowfall. We are healthy and hale. Hell, we couldn't have gotten through this Life During Wartime if it had been any other way. Thank you for your support, dear Reader. Please enjoy this selection of poems from five survivors. Sincerely, Emily Lagattolla Wolf Jaw Magazine Editor

Digital Lament Vanessa Scoot

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Enemy of the Air Nicholas Dertinger

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Which Country? Angélica Julia Dávila

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earth looks like a skull from above Angélica Julia Dávila

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Do I Tweet at this celebrity? Does he even have a Twitter? Angelica Julia Davila

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ichariba chode Julia Vu

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Thembi's Initiation Maroula Blades

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Being Maroula Blades

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Flight Maroula Blades

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The Burial Nicholas Dertinger

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Cycles of Existence Nicholas Dertinger

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If I could go out tonight Vanessa Scott

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ơi Julia Vu

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you loved me to the moon but then you got lost Julia Vu

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A Collection of Haikus about 2020 Vanessa Scoot

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DIGITAL LAMENT VANESSA SCOTT

Enemy of the air nicholas dertinger In peace time my days had less meaning My family ran around unaware we’d soon be crammed tightly into our two bedroom apartment everything is delivered, food, drink—grocery But then it wasn’t safe to leave The air is now our enemy We once gathered in masses for our Sunday rituals now we do not gather unless we are s i x f e e a p a

t r

We shopped unrestricted, unnecessarily buying shit no one ever really needed Now I leave maybe three days a week to remind myself I am something more, more than a mouse in a cage I am human, but The air is now our enemy The very breath in our lungs is contaminated, poisoned by unseen contagions, gripped in death I never feared death before But I am afraid now afraid for all, for those I love war is never kind to those forced to take shelter in the shadow of death The air is now our enemy This is not peace time This is war

¿Which country? angelica julia davila

Every morning I read my country’s history of death and at night I see the dead Do they recover bodies from el Río Grande? —or do skeletons sink becoming mud, a new life’s flesh. Every morning I read my country’s—my country’s which country? Dead is dead in both. Los muertos tally up in both on both between both one over the other historically, vertically, perpendicularly. En Juárez las mujeres desaparecen. Abuela’s casa sat in a corner, easy enough to hide behind. Los balaceros se escuchaban en toda la colonia. Her house sits abandoned now, she still wants to return because it’s her house. Every night I see the dead from my country, which country, ya ni sé.

They gathered a block away from where I live, mujeres, mamás, abuelas, y vecinas seeking justice for their collective fallen mijo shot at at night, and then he crashed his car into a pole pronounced dead at the scene. Univision cameraman focusing on their signs, mujeres en máscaras. (murder is massacre) Knowing there’s another deadly assassin in the air. Every morning I read my country’s history of death did it start with Cortez? Every morning I read my country’s history of death it continues with the deaths of those detained by ICE? Every morning I read my country’s history of death, los desaparecidos, estudiantes, mujeres Every morning I read my country’s history of death, which country? Pues, ya ni sé.

Earth looks like a skull from above angelica julia davila

From above, the clouds form shadows onto the earth. A demi-god somewhere asks another demi-god - what do you see in the shadows? - a skull, - a skull? Somewhere between the demigods’ line of vision and the skull is a pack of sardines migrating at five-hundred and fifty miles per hour toward - a skull, - a skull? the second demi-god questions. The topography shifts as the pack of sardines move on to keep schedule. A crying infant rings the sky loudly, while below the coastline’s blues are amplified… a view tainted by smudged finger residue on glass, and the lingering scent of body odor— the result of a commoditized movement to pack as many sardines as can fit into such tight quarters. Bessie Coleman wanted: to test the skies with tricks and spirit. Today that spirit has turned to residue— the sardines never stopping to breathe and never seeing the clouds cast shadows from above. Never listening to - a skull, - a skull? Meanwhile the demi-gods continue to debate - a skull, - a skull?

Do I tweet at this celebrity? Does he even have a Twitter? angelica julia davila

To be read by three women sitting at a kitchen table after eating a bowl of caldo de pescado in the autumn. Each woman must take their turn, and then eventually talk over each other until the reader no longer hears who is saying what, when and if there is indeed a fourth woman that comes in. grandma wants me to find out if someone famous is her relative abue quiere saber si ese hombre famoso es su pariente her daughter / my aunt / the youngest of eleven children two or three others muetros jovenes before birth no nacieron shakes her head de lado a lado looks like la reason habla a ella / talks to me / me hablan juntas / yo hablo, too como es que van a ser parientes / says she who is he / i ask

por lado de mi mamá / abue says

es un viejo ya viejo también / says she what’s his name / i ask es el apellido de mi mamá / abue says he’s not related / she says who, again / i ask

ese hombre es de otro lady / she says y que la familia de mi mama es desde— / abue says

de dónde / i ask

vamos a empezar de nuevo con esto / she says vengo desde el allá / says her hold on / i say quiero saber si es mi pariente yo digo que sí / abue says espérate / she says how do I look that up / i ask es porque es de Durango / says abue no no es de durango / says her me haces el favor entonces / abue says

rolling on the ceramic floor / the chair says before birth no nacieron. / says who

ATTN: Eduardo Yáñez

ichabira chode Julia Vu (phr.) a saying upon meeting someone new, the spirit of hospitality and friendliness to strangers; “once we meet, we become brothers and sisters”

my, what big teeth you have? all the better to eat you with, my dear. the thing with big, bad men is that they don’t seem like big, bad men at first. when he slid onto the stool beside her and asked the bartender for two manhattans, she didn’t know that he was a wicked creature with a taste for young girls, that smooth talking fucker. his hand was resting on her thigh when he nodded towards the door, winking with a knowing smirk, and, entranced, she followed. he pushed her onto the bed, pinning her wrists against the headboard. he told her that in his culture it’s customary for a man to consume his loved ones, to make them a part of himself and everything he does. i promise to relish your flesh and to tear through you with freshly sharpened teeth. when the deed is done, i’ll wear a lock of your hair around my neck, cradle your skull close to my heart, wrap your fingers around my waist, and hold you close, so so close, and we’ll be one. alarmed, she stands up to leave, but then she hears her mother, eyebrows raised as she hands her daughter a purse of fresh bait, well, maybe you shouldn’t have worn a hood blood red, my dear, you might as well have just asked for it, and she sits back down, lips sealed shut and eyes cast to the cover of the room. he reaches a finger beneath her chin, turning her to face his eyes, golden in the dark. my, what big teeth you have? all the better to eat you with, my dear.

!"#$%&'()&*&+&,+&-* !"#$%&"'(&")*+

I did not want her to have that cut. But who’d wed her if she didn’t? The cut gives a woman beauty to marry a man without scorn. But who’d wed her if she didn’t? She’d be safe from evil spirits to marry a man without scorn. Beaded aprons, songs and music. She’d be safe from evil spirits. Women don’t recall what’s whipped? Beaded aprons, songs and music. The holy razor; pain tightens. Women don’t recall what’s whipped? Thembi begs to cease the custom. The holy razor; pain tightens. Expelled from her body, wicked flesh. Thembi begs to cease the custom. Western women keep their bloom. Expelled from her body, wicked flesh. It’s too pink to be innocent. Western women keep their bloom. My daughter’s tears run with ruin. It’s too pink to be innocent. And it’s too small to be significant. My daughter’s tears run with ruin. Son-in-Law tells of Ankole-Watusi—his longhorn cows. And it’s too small to be significant. Thembi’s torment deepens, deepens like Tugela River. Son-in-Law tells of Ankole-Watusi—his longhorn cows. I hold my daughter’s hands; her eyes deserted. Thembi’s torment deepens, deepens like Tugela River. She’s remote, soars like a Martial Eagle o’er patched brush. I hold my daughter’s hands; her eyes deserted. Has she forgotten her mother’s love? She’s remote, soars like a Martial Eagle o’er patched brush. And her silence is scary like a cheetah in the village. Has she forgotten her mother’s love? Her Lehlakana weed skirt swishes, she goes. And her silence is scary like a cheetah in the village. Thembi’s still not smiling when fetching water. Her Lehlakana weed skirt swishes, she goes. The cut gives a woman beauty. Thembi’s still not smiling when fetching water. I did not want her to have that cut.

!"#$% !"#$%&"'(&")*+

I use it daily, the aisle of colour which changes tones. As I walk, moods swing like an empty washing line in the throes of autumn, trying to give form and sense to thoughts that bray. Now, I stand, half awake, a brick wall buckles, rubs itself on my skin. Brown motes fall as if dust to my feet, imprints are left behind. The body is bloodshot, but the sex remains the same, dormant. I equate myself with the air’s current and the nothingness of space and then paint my body moss gold. Under this colour, I am still me, yet different in the plague of gazes following my every step. One can be forgiven in thinking some mortals are nothing but spectres who want to cast down anyone that is other. I will write my story afresh on a palimpsest for naysayers to read. The corridor is pearlescent in view of a new horizon. I am reborn to kiss and gather cells of colour to brush them all over. How proud I am to see my brown body gleaming in natural light, distant from menacing eyes and the slurs of stinging tongues.

!"#$%& !"#$%&"'(&")*+ For Harriet Tubman (born Araminta Ross; c.1822 - March 10, 1913) Mah flesh witnessed the power of de cowhide whip. Dat devil-tongue, taunted and whistled in mornin’ breeze while Ahm hunched thinkin’ Ahm no auntjeminablack, "ugh, ugh, ugh…" for mah spirit’s strong, "ugh, ugh, ugh…" like dat of a Dahomey woman warrior. And there I was, strapped and whip-licked on a bark beetle rotten sweetgum tree dat mean man marking up mah back as he hollered and cussed in his fine white West Indian linen do-right shirt, “This is what you get for courting the Devil,” he said. Me uppity and all was tempted to back chat wid You’ve got somethin’ in common wid your big brother, de Devil; dis here is his kingdom. But I kept mah peace ‘cause under mah dress, unknown to the Bossman, hung mah mojo and layers of sacking bound up mah body like a protective vest. The rest of mah armour came from praying to the Lawd. Bloody ribbons of skin puckered and healed. And then I went on wid mah business being a slave ‘til one mornin’ at a dry-goods store, a mad slave owner broke my skull, busted up my head so bad that the sweet Lawd Jesus had to watched over me for two whole days. Mah hair saved me dat wicked day; it was tick like weave basket. Without a doctah’s care, I was sent back to the fields those blood slick graveyards, and I was working and a bleeding ‘til sundown. At times visions hooked, took a hold, and shook me with the fury of the Lawd himself, left me lying ‘pon dat hard-cold ground. One evenin’, a freedom song cradled mah brain. A vision of angels opened mah eyes and strengthened mah spirit to get up and run. And run I did, doing a hundred, into the pitch-black beetle dark, patting trees along the way. Did you know the moss on bark changes when runnin’ North? Trees are friends to an on-the-run slave as hounds wid flapping tongues and teeth a gnashing and a gashing hot ‘pon your trail. Even without light, you know you’re near it, stars shine and wink, wid all your might you hold your breath as the colonial blue moon turns silver. That’s when you’re standin’ on solid free ground. Barks, dem Boss man shouts and torches fade. Grass is full of glory so, so sweet to smell. I knelt and prayed in the milk-mist of a new-borne mornin’, checked mah hands, stroke mah skin to see if I had changed. I threw off mah ole head rag, de wind kissed mah brow, and I shook matted hair loose in the dawn of a tigress-orange sun and sung, “Hallelujah, sweet days are a comin’!”

The Burial I went to the woods to see if the trees would speak to me I kept shouting at myself to feel something, anything other than this grief I found myself wrapped in nothing feels like the wind nipping at your neck, so I button my jacket, no one answers so I kept screaming as if my throat would produce the broken stained-glass shards I longed to replace the words melted, liquid death preserving silence the leaves rustle, squirrels gathering walnuts scurrying up trees that bask in the nudity of barren branches nothing feels like the crushing of leaves beneath your feet, I press further in in the hollows, in the places shouting goes unanswered nothing feels like the weight of rusted clay packed down by spades, or the secrets I kept there the whimpered cry of the last summer sparrow breaks the silence and I breathe deeply inhaling the dying light of dusk grief has no obligation to anyone nothing feels like counting your losses the loss of a life once lived, relationships once experienced here I count them in piles of leaves,

in walnuts, in clay, in birdsongs,

I count them still, waiting for an answer the trees refuse to speak I turn ashamed, warm tears breaking through wisps of wind When I hear a faint whisper, “bury me here”

Cycles of Existence Nicholas Dertinger

In the end, we all see darkness the growth of interrupted dreams bring us face to face with our own darkness, rustling within rustling like leaves on a tree falling off branches in the nakedness of out stretched arms open wide into chaos and wonder under blue skies till we unravel ourselves following threads back to places of life, birth, warmth, home, Mother’s womb, united, but untied, untethered in the abyss of all that was before and all that could come to be and all that truly exists in the beginning,

IF I COULD GO OUT TONIGHT VANESSA SCOTT

I ain't got no plans there's no places where to dance no more djs paying trance I’ve got to stay inside I gotta stay everyone's so far away If I could go out tonight

mẹ ơi Julia Vu

it’s been six years since my parents have read my writing. my mother doesn’t mention my poetry anymore; she hates my selective memory. she says that i only ever remember the raised voices and slammed doors and the quiet tears shed behind locked bathroom doors. she says i never talk about the lullabies she her arms or the way she cried so violently she shook. she says i never mention the arms wrapped tight around my quaking body my sweat-tangled hair and the splintered voice of a mother who doesn’t know how to save her baby whispering in my ear and telling me that it’s going to be okay. i know you don’t understand me and perhaps you never will. perhaps you will never understand that somedays, all i want is to crawl back into your arms and curl back into your womb and be Unborned. perhaps you will never understand that somedays i just want to merge back into your being, to just be a part of you again. mommy, you will never understand my fascination with dying, but that’s okay. i don’t either. mommy, it’s too late for an abortion, but it’s never too late to keep me. mommy. i miss you.

you loved me to the moon but then you got lost

Julia Vu

I. growth when i met you, you were a garden of bounty where nature reigns superior and, around you, i could lose myself in the skies kissed golden and trees intermingled with the stars above, i could melt into a tornado of rose petals and stars divine; i could sink into the throes of savage passion. i painted the soft thumping of your pulse into constellations, i whispered your name into the roses in front my window, i smeared the woody scent of your pheromones into aged parchment, i carved your touch onto my skin in crimson rose blossoms, i burned every last message you sent me and kept the ashes in a golden chest on my bedside; my darling, i was good to you. you loved me like a rose, caressing my crimson petals between your fingers. II. decay the day you untied your ribbon from around my neck, you tasted like warm milk and lavender and your voice was imperial blue. your fingers were soft, that day, when they gently loosened the silk and pulled it free, and when the winter air prickled my neck, i could feel my entire body start to quiver. if i could, i would slice my dignity with the last words you whispered into my hair and sacrifice my blood to the moon for the chance to be reborn from stardust; does the world grant the right people at the wrong time second chances? i would stab your white promises and broken eyes into my throat and bleed the reasons why, without you, i am nothing. i would drive my teeth into my thighs and rip out every last inch that you touched and use my skin to cover-up the recordings of your laughter that was suddenly playing on loop in my brain. perhaps you had forgotten that flowers need water, too. III. what comes after i think i spent way too much of my time writing poetry that i’d never showed and writing letters that i’d never sent and imagining what the words “i love you” would sound like coming out of your mouth. i’m tired of being jealous over something that was never mine. some people are like clouds, the days are just brighter without them. in the end, you tried and you cared and, sometimes, that’s enough. i am not your rose and what we had was not love.

A COLLECTION OF HAIKUS ABOUT 2020 VANESSA SCOTT

1 During Zoom meetings, drinking wine in coffee mugs suit, tie, and boxers.

2 Let’s go to Costco and bulk buy toilet paper instead of canned goods.

3 I face palmed and cursed. I forgot my fucking mask halfway out the door.

FEATURED POETS Maroula Blades Maroula Blades is an Afro-British multifaceted artist living in Berlin. She was nominated for the Amadeu Antonio Prize 2019 for her educational multimedia project “Fringe”. The project was supported by the Swiss Jan Michalski Foundation for Literature. She was the first runner-up in the 2018 Tony Quagliano International Poetry Award, and the winner of Erbacce Poetry Prize 2012. Works were published in The Caribbean Writer, Thrice Fiction, The Freshwater Review, Words with Jam, Midnight & Indigo, Abridged, The London Reader, Stories of Music Vol. 2, So It Goes, Newfound Journal, Harpy Hybrid Review and by Peepal Tree Press among others. Regularly, Ms. Blades gives bilingual (English & German) poetry workshops in Berlin schools and high schools. Her multimedia projects have been presented at many international literary festivals in Germany. Chapeltown Books (UK) has recently released her flash fiction collection “The World in an Eye”, available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Julia Vu Julia Vu is a high school junior from Bay Area, California. As a dreamer with an imagination more overactive than most, she has always used writing as a way to temporarily escape from reality, to just delve deep into this alternate universe, and to bring the world that exists only in her imagination to life. A survivor of depression and eating disorders, she documents her cycles with decline, relapse, and recovery through her poetry. Julia hopes to empower others and embrace the beauty of her own mental illness by sharing the letters she never intended to send.

Angelica Julia Davila Angelica Julia Davila is a writer, comedian and performer. She is a PhD student in the Program for Writers at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Her poetry has appeared in The Sink Review and Ambos Magazine and her memoir essays have appeared in The Nasiona and Ought: The Journal of Autistic Culture.

Vanessa Scott Vanessa Scott turned 40 this year. She's a Mexican Science teacher living in Bogotá, Colombia. She enjoys writing humorous dystopian poetry and prose.

Nicholas Dertinger Nicholas Dertinger is a poet, writer, and illustrator, currently attending grad school at UIC in the Program for Writers. After years of doodling in notebooks, writing songs and stories, Nicholas co-founded Stoke the Wild, a creative arts podcast dedicated to all things creative, be it pop culture or fine arts. In 2020, he self-published his first book of illustrated poetry entitled Paper Fledglings. Follow Nicholas on Instagram @nickdertingerart or on Twitter @nickdertinger for more.

EDITOR EMILY LAGATTOLLA

BOOK DESIGNED BY SELENE BAUTISTA PHOTOGRAPHY

SELENE BAUTISTA - Creative Director CHKO - pp 7,8 LUIS GARVAN - p16 EDGAR LUNA - pp 27,28

DIGITAL ILLUSTRATION ALEJANDRO BAUTISTA - pp 4, 23,24,29,30,32