Allyson Salazar is a writer and teacher from Connecticut.  As a child, Tuesdays were designated "swear day" by her mother.  These days she lets 'em fly whenever she fucking feels like it. 







Our Father





arranged to belittle his children. We disappointed him,

enraged him.  Fuck his games.  I will just keep on leaving.


My mother was null, the observer. Please be

quiet.  I remember a shrew who treated us like vaginas who yelled, like zeros.





Nipples raised like the tied knots on my parent's bedspread,

sometimes so hard they hurt.


In his mouth the sour mix of coffee and milk I smelled each Sunday

before I even awoke. Why didn't I wear underwear to bed?









JCrew Screw You


Classic fit boycut jeans wool toggle coat

beaded braided macramé belt

she thinks fuck you

stylist cunt's stale breath

masking tape itching my nipples.


Balled fists stuffed into

ladder stitch cardigan

patch pockets over city tee in willow

she seems all fuck off

so what side buckle suede riding boots.


Page three and four's fall spread

couples on bumpers in natural light

stiff jeans and cocked hips

slashed front cotton sweater

and her unsmiling puss means fuck me.