October 17-23, 2016: Poetry from Jennifer Bradpiece, Jo Angela Edwins, and Luisa A. Igloria

This week presenting the winners of the 2016 (19th annual)
Poetry Super Highway Poetry Contest:

Jennifer Bradpiece, Jo Angela Edwins and Luisa A. Igloria

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Jennifer Bradpiece


Jennifer Bradpiece won first place in the 2016 Poetry Super Highway Poetry Contest

I was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, where I still reside. I have my Bachelors in Creative Writing from Antioch University. When I’m not rescuing Pit Bulls, I try to remain active in the Los Angeles writing and art scene: I’ve interned at Beyond Baroque and I often collaborate with multi-media artists on projects. My poetry has been published in various journals and online zines, including The Nervous Breakdown, 491 Magazine, Mas Tequila Review, and The Common Ground Review. I have poetry forthcoming in Degenerate Literature Review and NeosAlexandria: The Dark Ones Anthology among others.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Jennifer Bradpiece and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


My mother is a hospital bed.

My mother is a glamorous 5’10
in her long cut slacks.

My mother is steel and metal plowing cold linoleum.

My mother is a hand model at 16 in New York.

My mother is a POW inside her skin.

My mother is a text book editor in her 30s.

My mother is hemorrhaging morphine metaphors at the mouth.

My mother is a cross-word Sudoku queen.

My mother swears she’s been probed by aliens;
they watch us now, and wait.

My mother is all perfumed in her cigarette plums, anointed in sweet
white wine, and lit by a Hawaiian sunset.

My mother hisses at the well-dressed palliative care doctor
every time she walks in her room.

My mother calls her the “Angel of Death.”

My mother whispers to me and giggles about toe-faeries as i massage her feet.

My mother is a Japanese wood cutting.

My mother’s voice is not my mother’s voice.

My mother was called communist by a small town cop
because she wore black and read beat poetry.

My mother is all Xrays and radioactive dyes.

My mother loses her love: impaled in a trap in Vietnam.

My mother contains a PICC line to another dimension.

My mother marries her high school boyfriend to move to London.

My mother is shrinking like dry sands in high tide.

My mother sees her aunt in flames on a movie screen
the day a lit cigarette eats the bed.

My mother dreams the death of another in an early morning news radio headline.

My mother marries her divorce attorney.

My mother is the recoil left behind a fired gun.

My mother adopts all my friends and lovers while i orphan myself for years.

My mother and i recognize each other the night her arm grows four times its size.

My mother nearly drowns as a child.

My mother sees her body underwater from a tree branch above.

My mother reads Runes to us every New Years Day.

My mother is an octopus, her translucent tentacles all inked out.

My mother wears falls, dresses like Twiggy, looks like a young Catherine Denueve.

My mother is a pharaoh, tugging the tubes in her sarcophagus,
wild eyed,
summoning us all to follow.


(First published in Riprap Journal 37)



Jo Angela Edwins


Dr. Jo Angela Edwins won second place in the 2016 Poetry Super Highway Poetry Contest.

She teaches poetry writing, American literature, general literature, and composition at Francis Marion University in St. Florence, California. She received her Ph.D. in English with a focus on contemporary American literature at the University of Tennessee. She has published articles and book reviews on contemporary American poetry and has also published poems in various journals and magazines, including Calyx, Naugatuck River Review, New South, and Sojourn. She is the 2014 Carrie McCray Nickens Fellowship award winner in poetry from the South Carolina Academy of Authors. Her first chapbook Play was released by Finishing Line Press in May, 2016.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Luisa Igloria and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


This Year

The brothers at the fraternity house decided
to smear a blow-up doll with scarlet paint
and leave it in the yard, head bowed, legs splayed,
a cheap Halloween decoration.

Four women were found murdered in this small city
in three months. A grandmother who sang in church,
hunched in a ditch. Two women, cousins,
sunken in shallow graves behind
their killers’ ramshackle house.
Another woman, shrouded in an urban field
overgrown with kudzu. Workers cleaning
the wide lot smelled what they thought was a dead
stray dog for days and said nothing, only hacked
with greater care the nearer they came to the corner
that hid what made them afraid. In another
county, a woman, home from communion,
discovered her pug, a puppy, her first pet,
roasted in an oven, the door wedged shut
with her grandmother’s parson’s chair.

And people wonder still
why we tell sad women’s stories.
We listen to such questions. We light candles.
Put on a pot of tea. Pull dark bread
from the cupboards. Ask the people to sit down

Luisa A. Igloria


Luisa A. Iglora won third place in the 2016 Poetry Super Highway Poetry Contest.

Originally from Baguio City in the Philippines, Luisa A. Igloria is the author of 13 books of poetry and 1 chapbook. She has four daughters and now makes her home in Virginia with most of her family. She is a Professor of Creative Writing and English, and from 2009-2015 was Director of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University. Her work has appeared or been accepted in numerous anthologies and journals including New England Review, The Common, Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, The Missouri Review, Indiana Review, Poetry East, Umbrella, Sweet, qarrtsiluni, poemeleon, Smartish Pace, Rattle, The North American Review, Bellingham Review, Shearsman (UK), PRISM International (Canada), Poetry Salzburg Review (Austria), The Asian Pacific American Journal, and TriQuarterly.Vist her on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Luisa Igloria and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Only let the body find the chime

In the country,
we save all the bits

of leftover string, the fat
that drips from the sides

of rusted nails. Waste not,
sings the crooked bird

in the clock that tells
the time a hundred ways—

or waste away.
In the afternoons,

when the sun begins to drop
through the thin atmosphere,

we sit on the porch
and begin our real work:

someone has to do it,
someone has to find the hollow

reeds through which the wind,
strafing through, might make

a different kind of sound
from the ones we know.



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