Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

A Dining Room Floor in Léon, Guanajuato, México by Olivia Muñoz

a smiling woman with black hair and white glasses standing in front of a brick wall

Most surreal: the empty chairs in a silent living room where
the mismatched tiles are a patchwork of green, coral, and maize
shifting under the phantom sounds of forks and terra cotta.

My grandmother never cared about something as frivolous
as flooring and my grandfather said sheepishly, It’s all we could afford.
He: the man who built this house, this family.

She: the woman who ordered prickly pears by the crate
delivered to her door, so that she could cut open the fruit and let
the juices and seeds sink into the plan that gravity had for them.

A lesson in hand building everything so that it lasts, the look
be damned. A prayer for indulgence, so sweet, so free, the way
we lived when we stood there, even with American feet.

Olivia Muñoz was born and raised in Saginaw, Michigan, to Mexican parents. Her writing has appeared in About Place Journal, San Pedro River Review, No Tender Fences: An Anthology of Immigrant & First-Generation American Poetry, and other publications. Olivia is the 2024 winner of the Latin American Poetry prize from the Blue Mountain Review, which will publish her chapbook, These Women Carry Purses Full of Knives, in the summer of 2024. She lives on the West Coast.

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes


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