New Mexico State University

English Department

P.O. Box 30001, MSC 3E

Las Cruces, NM 88001

Puerto del Sol

Weirding it up since 1964.

Puerto del Sol is funded by New Mexico State University and the Mercedes Delos Jacobs Fund, and designed and operated by the students of the MFA in Creative Writing program.

Puerto del Sol is a proud member of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses.

January 3, 2020


& the horse-archers watched as I tried to tame the wild.

calculations of sleepless steps bent on becoming imprint:

because to speak my verse is to decipher my movements,

and if the stray arrow orients itself to my binding of skin,

let the wound te...

December 20, 2019

Magnified moments in the Prison art room

make sense, they build a culture; free. Bars become

a texture of rust sung decay outside the windows.

Staplers aren't weapons, they simply bond paper.

A guy asks about the value scale; he straddles a fence.

I talk...

December 6, 2019

Love Quarrel with Ixodes 

I leaned into you. 

My hands, my many bodies of desire 

brushing tips of natal grass. 

You pooled into me, devoured 

nouns, verbs, shoes, lucidity,

the names of flowers, flowers

becoming things. Of all the things 

you tried to teach...

November 22, 2019

Lux Labor

Remember the maw of the shears

surrendered to a shake shingle shed,

which stands on the edge of a sleeve

of meadow next to the woods,

and our words like dirt stuck to shovels

that now are the quiet instruments

of the trenches we dug, and the road


November 8, 2019


movement flickers

under the pale sheet of SSRIs.

the sharpest parts of my fingers

dig into my palm,

excavating crescents

in bruised shades of purple.

i hold a galaxy in my hand.

the elixir glazes my gut

in nauseating swirls.

my chained beast squirms


October 26, 2019

I was raised in the light of mountain   hulk of

a confident outline   brazen   vibrational

luster a conglomerate presence of   pine   stone

lion   deer     &   bear’s

amorous desiring o...

October 11, 2019


A father pins his son against a wall

and wraps his hand around that little throat

to squeeze it only once, as if to say

I cannot take this wildness of your wings.

An hour afterwards, he wipes a cloth

across the stinging eyes his boy can’t close


September 27, 2019

Diane, remember the room divider 

we improvised so we could each have privacy? 

A twine between the two halves of the room. 

Our bunk bed taken apart—your top bunk 

brought to your side of the room and my bunk 

brought to mine. We threw a dark blanket 


September 13, 2019

Elegy     (in process)

I remember myself and my open legs. Silk lingerie
          to dance in. I remember that the grasses swayed too,
                    the olives and wheat murmuring toward the sky....

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