Creative Submissions

Fior E. Plasencia – Buscando sus Raíces

Photo by Fernelis Lajara

“Despierta dormilon / te soy infiel con el sol”

Las Chicas del Can, “Las Pequeñas Cosas”


By Fior Plasencia
by Fior Plasencia



You wear red on your bemba,

a lipstick your mother-in-law gave away.

You wear some tight blue leggings

a pair you got for yourself the first year in college.

You wear a crème, old-looking blouse with a see-through heart in the rear,

       one you got in clearance when you worked in retail.


You also wear a chancleta that got more colors than a carnival parade,

one friend got it for you when you were still a novia, nothing else.

A high ponytail on your auburn Afro-Caribbean hair with tints of caramel

was on your head.

Perfume, you sweet-scented every inch of yourself

because hello, aromas make you feel appealing.

You decided to be the woman you always wanted to be.

You decided to be a woman, whatever that was, ugly or not.

A woman with confidence around the hips, strong ones.

You crushed down all your imperfections with the sugary aroma.

Who else doesn’t feel like a Latin Victoria Secret model with

long hair, embracing your spinal cord?

I have to tell you, her shadow was hyper, it did not hide.

She assumed she was conquering her world, one without

fingers pointing at her thin chicken legs.

She assumed she was Picasso;, she thought she was the color red.

She dreamt like an immigrant at night.

She dreamt.

She dreamt a damn lot.

Her skin was glowing like a Christmas tree on the day of the Reyes.

She swore she was the skyline. She wanted to educate the world.

Her mouth was not so giant anymore;, her positive boldness was.

She traveled in a click of a second, she was winning.

As soon as she walked up to him, all she overheard was;

“Why in the world are you wearing that and red lipstick to the park?

Take it of all off.”

The world she invented in a lick of her lips

fell like dominos; one after the other.

She was in the middle of them all,

there were no survivors left,

¡qué vaina!





by José A.Silva
by José A.Silva

“Yo no soy baúl de nadie.”

Frase Dominicana



My name

hasn’t given me any problems until I landed foot here,

it must be so damn hard to spell

a four-letter name.

It is easier to say than Connecticut,

Naugatuck or cerebellum,

I bet.


My name,

la [descendencia] of my long family,

it’s giving people headaches.

God! Take un remedio for your ignorance.

All of a sudden my name has

more letters than an urban dictionary.

“Repeat after me; it’s Fior not Flor.”

“You mean? Fioreeeeeeed  or Fire?”

“No sir! “

“What do you mean? Its Fiorrrrrrr?!”

I have lost my

last drop of paz.


My name,

the [legado] of my dynasties,

is never going to be

lower because of your expectations.


Romantic, seductor, short,

petite name,

I shouldn’t be judged for four characters.

Stop adding letters!

Stop sounding like a cotorra

who immigrated to your mouth.

Vomit the ignorance

sooner than later!

Why, if I have to memorize

all your towns,

you cannot try writing

my name precisely?

“But you don’t look like your name.”

“How is a Fior is supposed to look like?”


My name,

the [recuerdo] of love

my dad has for my mom;,

it is stupid to people

who don’t look beyond their noses.

They think

that the color of the skin needs to

match with a name.

They rip each of its

bones if it “sounds”

like the nanny,

the cleaning lady,

or what they see on TV.

As if working honestly

is infamy.

As if cleaning bathrooms

is prostitution.

As if the media  

is the holy pura verdad.


Yes, my name is Fior,

although it came from Flor


still, it’s not Flor.

I can change the diaper of a kid.

I can clean the office you made a disarray.

I can show you the realidad.

These things don’t make

me fewer than

the deprived intelligence and

humanity that crosses through your skull.


Mi nombre,

(lo que tengo de por vida)

needs its own chair,

not segregated in the back of

the bus because of

the shade you assume it has,

it needs its own chair because

it really shines,

sí no, ask my mom

she would tell you about

the things you need to identify:




y lo que llevas de por vida.


Stay away from misspelling

my name.

Mi nombre,

my name,

has its own soul

have some respect,






Tribeca, I Don’t Belong to You

Photo by José A. Silva
Photo by José A. Silva


Vivo en Tribeca
un poquito de Wall Street en los zapatos Gucci que la señorita modela
Los rascacielos tocan las emociones
aparatos electrónicos de poca clase
humanos mayoría de leche

Starbucks en la esquina con los que con su marca levantan el cuello
Mis ojos toman cuerda de reloj buscando entre señas

algo que me traslada a tierra quisqueyana
por unos instantes…
unos segundados de morir y soñando

Las calzadas gritan de tanta cabezas que las pisan
Turistas perdidos en chancletas
Las fotos captan un pedacito de Chambers Street
calle de humo contaminado con construcciones

que no se le encuentran fin ni comienzo
Carreras de coches con los niños montados a primera fila…
ojos azules y narices largas

Hoy soy africana caminando por estas cuidad

metida en el bolsillito caro de otra ciudad
el cabello rizado no me ayuda
ni unos labios subjetivos que murmuran miles de cosas;
una indígena, mestiza
camina con su tapa rabo con un BlackBerry en la mano,
to blend with the others
Pa’ que no se den cuenta que no soy de aquí

Los lujosos apartamentos se quedan mirando a la extraña,
me ignora Acappella.

A mí me da igual.

A mí me da igual.





El Nuevo Mundo es un Invento

by Kate Eller
by Kate Eller

La caña


con la Ñina y la Pinta

Santa María

silueta de Anacaona

Cacique montado en una pasola de palmas

el sudor comiendo del sol en la frente

África se transportó sin decidir

a la fuerza

a las malas

Bartolomé de Las Casas

¿Taínos dónde están?

el areito quedó sin terminar

los barcos están llenos de criminales

las cadenas

el tráfico de esclavos

perdimos sin ganar

ganamos perdiendo

¡Manden más gente de la Península Ibérica!

el nuevo mundo es un invento

mundo viejo ya

no es de ustedes

no es mío

Caribes / Galibi, ¿Dónde están sus canoas?

Solo está la brisa para darnos sus retratos

recordatorios de la historia poca escrita

las tres g:




con la misión de convertir pecando con la otra mano

matando la tierra

matando a un hermano





la estúpida estructura del quiénes están arriba mirando hacía abajo

sin bajar de escalón

perfumando en conquistas poco justificadas

pérdida humanas

perdida de historias




About the author: Fior E. Plasencia (Mujer con Voz), born in Jarabacoa, Dominican Republic, is a lover of perico ripao, guaba marmalade, and spanglish. She moved to New York City at a young age and began writing poetry often with what she was learning in her bilingual class. She studied History and Education at Brooklyn College. Her work has appeared in The Acentos Review, New York Dreaming, Brown, Loud, and Proud Zine and others. She is also the author of the poetry book Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia. You can find her work at:



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