We bring you the names and bios of the writers, poets, and artists that are published in Hargot, no.2. We hope that you purchase a copy at our DC fundraiser this June 3rd, 2018, so you can dive into its pages.Read More
“I am trying to stay present, trying not to run head first into the darkness she invited.”Read More
Spilled words from her lips/ like red wine on white carpets. / She left many stains.Read More
a dormant volcano.Read More
real women are polished opals.
i am buried coal.
Our second edition is going to come out early Summer! We are so, so excited. Deadline for first draft submissions is May 1st.Read More
Zeus’s boys are in a rage.
Advantages not met with advancements
Turn their poetry to slander;
Galatea has turned to stone again.
Does she feel honored by her own murder, this girl who dies so that others might die? She will bleed on this stone so that a war might be fought.Read More
Give me a face with enough
grace for a Valentine’s date.Read More
But we are too old:
we were too old and too young to flee
countries, to outlive
earthquakes, hurricanes, rape, murder.
It was a damn song, of all things, just a few lyrics, enough to place a hook just behind her small intestine and yank. The memory rose up in her, a sickeningly warm wave that crested inside of her chest until all she had to do was close her eyes and she was there.Read More
You are a thief of my flesh; you split me like plum leaves
too early in the spring. Disrobed of what protects me;
one silver necklace undone, cotton to the floor.
Before you I am bare.
On the few nights
the moon shone brighter than streetlights,
we would climb out our windows
to drink the city air.
And Mina wonders whose fault this is, this eagerness to see her and judge her before she's even stepped off the plane.Read More
Many nights I lie awake,
Remembering the violence
That ferried me into womanhood
Let's be pragmatic: you can't hold on to something that is dissolving in your hands.
red mud bundle where peaceable people retire
and kids end up, end up again
A rapid nib descends, amends once more
A pained farewell through piling drafts of irk.