Santa Fe Literary Review: Launch Party and Call for Submissions

The Santa Fe Literary Review, 2011 issue, was launched with a gala reception and reading by contributors at Santa Fe Community College on Tuesday.

We are now busy reading for the 2012 issue. Staff is: Meg Tuite, fiction editor, Sudas Clement, poetry editor, Sarah Velez, intern/editor at large, art editor, and Alona Bonano, intern/editor at large.
Santa Fe Literary Review seeks poetry, flash fiction,short memoir/personal essay and visual arts with an edge. Surprise us! No previously published work, please. SFLR accepts submissions year round, to be read in the fall. Send 4-7 pages (snail mail please, no email submissions except for residents outside the US) and SASE for reply only to:

Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe Literary Review
6401 Richards Ave.
Santa Fe, NM 87508.

ART–photography, collage, graphic art, anything that reproduces well in black and white, to Write her for further details.

Deadline for the 2012 issue December 1st, 2011.


Meg, Miriam, and Sudasi

Editors, past and present, with contributors.

Interview with Meg Tuite

1.     What is you personal/aesthetic relationship to the sentence? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.
I have always been hypnotized by those long, rhythmic poetic sentences that flow like music. Bruno Schulz, the Polish writer, was a master of this mesmerizing, brilliant prose that streamed like a river.
I can’t say that I always work with longer sentences. It depends on the story being written. Flash fiction calls for terse, punch-in-the-gut sentences that say as much as possible in as few words as possible. Longer stories allow more freedom to draw out characters, setting and theme in whatever way the writer desires. My preference is for poetic prose, no matter if it’s longer or shorter sentences.

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?
My work has always been character driven. The human psyche is what intrigues me the most–those bombs that are not dropped by mouth, but sometimes tell through tics, folded arms, tapping feet and tightened lips. I always try to keep the movement of the character in mind when writing.
As far as my own body and writing? The best times are when I don’t feel myself anymore and get completely lost in the characters. That’s when I know I’m getting somewhere. When I am aware of myself, my body, I have a harder time moving a piece forward. I need to get out of my skin and into someone else’s to write.

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a writer?
I’m not one of those writers who can pick up the pen at any point in time, when I have the time, and write. It has to come to me. I still work at it whenever I get a chance, but it can be frustrating when I have a whole day ahead of me and I’m struggling with a sentence for hours. Don’t like that so much, but like anything else it’s part of the process of birthing something, so I stick with it and muster out a few lines and then try and go back to it after reading some inspiring writers like Flannery O’Connor or Djuna Barnes. Somehow, reading the work of these brilliant writers can sometimes get the flow moving again on my trickling faucet.

4. How does it feel to publish your first book?
The best part about getting an entire book together and published is that now it is out in the world and you have people reading your work!!! That is exciting and scary, but it feels great!!! I spent a lot of time on this first collection. To have a publisher say, YES, we want to publish this, is also a blast of cold, fresh air!!! I’m very happy with the book and am now working on a novel and always sending out stories and flash fiction. I have a chapbook coming out soon through MonkeyPuzzle Press out of Boulder, CO. They are publishing 20 of my flash stories and that’s another cold splash in the midst of this inferno!!! In writing, as in living in the desert, we’re always praying for RAIN!!!!!

Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals
including Berkeley Fiction Review, 34th Parallel, One, the Journal,
Monkeybicycle, Hawaii Review and Boston Literary Magazine. She is the fiction
editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel
“Domestic Apparition” (2011) is now available through San Francisco Bay Press
( She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” up
at Used Furniture Review. Her blog:


by John Grey

There’s men still scouring the woods
for a young boy missing years ago.
It’s a ritual, a passion, an obsession, for some.
For others, it’s just something to do
on a warm, clear weekend.
That’s the background to our story.
That’s the familiar footfall
to our daily lives, the arguments,
the kisses, the meals, the games
of badminton in the backyard,
even the trips to the bathroom.
The family may hold together
only for the fact that we all share the same name
but I like to think that it’s the hunters
stomping through the pine forest
that do it for us,
their caring, in all its shapes and guises,
gluing together the homes they pass
in their inveterate seeking,
the ones that haven’t lost a child to the deep,
forbidding woods,
that don’t require a search party
for the boy who, under pressure,
admits his mother love
or the other for whom there’s no quest required,
merely a swift hand to the rear end
when he shoots the BB gun at passing cars.
They may never locate the body.
Maybe there isn’t one to find.
But there’s bodies aplenty in our house.
And when there’s people out looking,
then we’re never done finding.

This haunting poem is forthcoming in “The Santa Fe Literary Review.” We expect the magazine to be out by the start the fall semester at the latest–with a publication launch in the autumn.


by Joan Mitchell

When the poisoned apple lodged in your throat
the sad dwarfs hauled you to a wide hilltop

and left you there alone.  Your glass coffin
is an odd sky window where the seasons pass

like familiar strangers, and bring eternities
of birds.  The owl comes with the first

snow’s silence, tufted feet just above your head.
Round gold eyes.  His tears clink on the glass.

The raven brings tears of rain, and a comic
waddle.  He peers at you from one side

of his head and then the other as new green
mounds along the coffin’s sides.  Summer’s dove

has the tiniest feet, a busy scuffling on the glass.
He pecks on the lid right above your nose:

“I’d curl, curl, curl soft and gray beside you.”
The prince will come as crisp leaves skitter on the lid.

He’ll kiss you, and it all begins again:  Rush of mind
and blood.  Tug of others.  Bicker of everyday birds.


Pleased to announce this poem is forthcoming in The Santa Fe Literary Review, which is currently in production ad should be out midsummer, with a launch party in September.

“Artifact” by Gail Rieke

Forthcoming in Santa Fe Literary Review–Poem by Joseph Delgado

war came. war went
by Joseph Delgado

war came. war went
like grandmother’s cigarette
smoke through the screen door
there she whittles bone and wood
praying for rain, praying for the snakes
to stop hissing her name from the
bunch grass or under the old chevy
that never got fixed
she whispers names long since forgotten milagros
dios santo nino san ysidro
she twists her tongue in psalms and
bends her back over the wash, sheets
sweat stained, a drop of blood
like a peach from the branch
hangs from the cloth, that
smell of camphor and gauze
that taste of piss in the air
pulling grit and sand from teeth
watching the wind waver through and over
grass, watch as the sunlight traces my
grandmother’s face, watch as she eyes the
ghosts sitting down by the acequeia, she tells me dont go mijo
dont go

What The Santa Fe Literary Review is Looking For: Slush Pile Roulette by Meg Tuite, Fiction Editor

Meg Tuite
The Santa Fe Literary Review
Fiction Editor for the 2011 issue
Slush Pile Roulette
The slush pile is where it all begins for the fiction editor. Now, of course, in order to get that pile accumulating a call must be sent out for submissions. Miriam Sagan put an ad in Poets & Writers for The Santa Fe Literary Review asking for poetry and flash fiction (stories up to 1000 words) with an edge. The deadline for the submission is Dec. 1, 2010. That was the official call, but there are many others. The fiction and poetry editors of the magazine have taken to the classrooms and the streets to rustle up writer’s to send in those pieces that have been sitting in their file cabinets and under their beds, drag them out, and get them shined up and spit-ready for submission.
            Most writers have heard of the slush pile. There’s even a literary magazine out of Cambridge titled The Slush Pile. They pack up hundreds of rejects from The Harvard Review in wheelbarrows or some such, and roll them back to their homes to rummage through them, searching for lost nuggets like sifting for gold.
            So, every two weeks, I meet with Miriam and pick up the accumulated manuscripts that have been mailed in and take them home to read. I think I can be safe in stating that almost all poetry and fiction editors are writers or have been at some point in the past. Why else would we do it? We love writers and we love to find those gems in the stacks that work for our particular magazine. We also know the joy and relief of deigning a story or poem finished. That means we have worked it over, for who knows how long, and either work-shopped it or sent it to those writers we trust to give us their final critique, until we feel ready to take that plunge and send it out. We send our babies forth into the unknown hands of editors across the map to usually wait for months, but sometimes just weeks due to online submission internet immediacy, in hopes of a communion with that stranger reading our poem or story who says, “YES, THIS IS IT,” and emails us back with a congratulations and an acceptance into their magazine.
            Most writers, who have been sending out multiple submissions for months or years are usually inundated with rejections. Believe me, a lot of the submissions that are rejected by twenty magazines or journals could one day be rejoiced and picked up by another magazine. A lot of the rejects are beauties that may not fit within the criteria of that particular journal they were sent to, so we can’t give up!
        The reward is always in the work, and we as writers know that, but let’s face it! We all want to be read. We yearn for an audience out there in the cosmos to feel something, anything, from those words we scrawl on the pages and string together into poetry and stories.
            I am excited to be a fiction editor for The Santa Fe Literary Review’s 2011 issue. I love and anticipate receiving your work! The deadline is Dec. 1, so please keep sending it in! We couldn’t have an incredible magazine without you!!!

The Last Time You Dyed Your Hair by S.L. Bond. Forthcoming SFLR

Here is one of the stories that has been accepted for publication and is forthcoming in The Santa Fe Literary Review–look for it in Fall 2010 on SFCC campus.

S.L. Bond grew up in Santa Fe and will be studying photography at UNM this fall. She writes about gender and Judaism at her blog, Dear Diaspora (

S.L. Bond
for EJO

The face stares lifelessly back at me. Afloat in its jar, its skin is puffed and pallid, fat lips parted, a pale moon being disgorged from the green kelp forest of hair. The sick scent of formaldehyde is everywhere, palpable and pressing as thick city smog.

I had called you comrade. I had run messages along spiders’ strings, crisscrossed classrooms, smuggling your scrawled bulletins and sending back my reply. And I had saved samples of your handwriting, this box a museum of our late adolescence, carefully preserved specimens, pinned and precious as butterflies. These are relics of a girlhood now dusted and forgotten, or in my case rejected: shorn off.

The face, truly, is a head, a spherical mass covered with thick, dark hair. Its neck is a stump, sewn shut. Oh face. Its eyelids are swollen closed, puckered in a perpetual kiss, and its dead lips threaten to sing to me, some familiar story we have tried so hard to snuff out.

I miss you in constant, quiet ways, rhythms murmured in the clicking clockwork of my chest. There is a lot of quiet now. I keep my own counsel. Secrets sleep snow-buried in my body, hibernating in joints and limbs, in thin coats across skin, awakened now and again by a lover’s wandering or misplaced finger—

Tearing through dresser drawers, I am hunting the last surviving pieces of women’s clothing. Stray t-shirts, panties, a pair of tights: holdouts, huddled in the darker corners, cockroaches in cotton and lace. I stuff them into trash bags and squeeze out the air as if to suffocate. The knot I tie in the black plastic is a noose. Here I am: the hangman of my former self.

I used to think you were less sensitive, but now I see you were just less sentimental. I was stuck in scrapbooks. You had run scissors around your paper cutout heart, placed it between the pages of some secondhand book like a dried and captured flower. You were long since ready to take it with you.

The head is suspended in thick, sallow liquid, something about the consistency of cold oil. Glass jar, five gallons, so heavy the wooden shelf bows slightly under its weight. The hair is a dense and tangled mass, stained an algal green from death and liquid. The throat: a jagged line of skin, sawed through, a darker gray around the edges. A mess of stitches in thick, coarse string.

And you: twenty now, experienced, you dry off with a dark towel, no longer yearning for evidence. A beautiful young woman now, somehow, all your anger washed out and away, visible once before disappearing, swirling in the basin with the last ever streaks of dye.

The day I decide to change my name is the day I realize every other name I have belongs, first, to a dead girl or woman: Sarah and Lisa and me, the person I used to be. I am sick of your weight, your dreams, your begging whispers. I am sick of your pleas. “Keep me, keep me.” Dead jar babies, your pretty faces saved from rot but not from the grotesque, your own inevitable ugliness. The ground would have been better.

None of us kiss and tell anymore.
We can’t.

Kathryne Lim Poem–forthcoming in SF Literary Review

Over the Taos Gorge

The world is agape
cliffs cut
like jagged teeth;
lava once flowed,
a cool river runs through.

A hot hand
on a steely bridge.
Willow and
I can see the dress
there on a cottonwood tree.

I read
they were thinking of
netting this bridge,
as if a bed of string
would keep
people from
jumping in,

as if people were so
easily deterred.
I caught myself
in a tangle
of sheets once
for a motel maid
to find me.

And I drove
300 miles
to dizzy myself
this world open wide,
this water flowing over hot earth,
licking its lips.

If I were to fall
right now
into this everything
to be caught
to and fro

to the rushing
of the Rio Grande
like a lullaby,
I imagine I would climb back
up here
just to do it all over again.


Kathryne Lim has been inspired by the beautiful New Mexico landscape for nearly a decade. She lives in Santa Fe, NM where she is a social worker and aspiring writer.

SFLR Preview: Behzad Dayeny

It is said an army marches on its stomach, but the same is true of a college campus. For many years I appreciated the three squares at Santa Fe Community College campus–filling, nourishing, often interesting food. It was only recently that I realized our head of food services was also a poet. We’re glad to publish him again–his work also appeared in our last issue. Poetry editor Sudasi selected this–for me, the last iage really reached out and got my attention. Enjoy.


Standing frozen
In the moment
Trains dash by
And so do terrains
Planes fly by
A hat blows
In the wind
Plastic bags
Trying to break
Free from the tree
Caw, caw, caw
Coughs the crow
A feather falls
Off the falcon
Still frozen
A mannequin
In the window
Snow comes
Snow melts
Destroy cities
Climb higher
Man walks
On Jupiter
Sun becomes
Less bright
Winters linger
Longer, and
A woman
Dreams about
A red dress

Behzad Dayeny, Director of Food Services at Santa Fe Community College. Born in Iran, I have been living in Santa Fe since 1984

SFLR Preview Poem–Yves C. Lucero

Yves C. Lucero


Single Frenchicano male, 42 and proudly bald, seeks inspiration for long term relationship. Hobbies include scribbling, musing, teeth grinding and wiping beads
of blood off forehead after staring at blank page for extended periods. If you are free spirited, fun-loving, dangerous and neurotic, then you’re probably reading Rumi.

The Greater Fool

I used to play the game
volleying digital money
over nets
and grosses,
skirting margins –
a momentum trader
greedily searching for
The Seven Cities of Gold
in a virtual maze,
not heeding the signs –
caveat emptor.

Now it is gone.
The inheritance built
by years of toil,
gambled and lost,
shame the only dividend,
the only given
in the rigging.

And something else
has taken its place.

I want to render
the buildings of commerce
into heaps of fiery rubble.
I want to grind the bones
of CEO’s
to meal,
to fertilize
my common daisy
as it bursts
through the ashes –
a green temple.

I can no longer
listen to the bullshit:
speak of politics,
I will be picking apples.