top of page
  • Writer's pictureNeon Mariposa Magazine

Two Poems by Christina Strigas

Decades of Art

I can lie like a jazz singer

on a sultry bed,

in a torrid nightclub.

It's the 20’s, sliding inside humid

Chicago bars.

I am a little girl, wonderfully sacred

and scared of consequences.

Nothing can be wrapped up as perfectly

as pink bodies, naked in the daylight

wet and sweltering on wrinkled sheets.

Whispering red sweet secrets, like candy                

on sky blue Sunday mornings.

I can lay on the grass after a music festival

free from law, handcuffs,

rules. It’s the 70’s

we made it

out alive. We saw Jim, Jimmy,

Janet at the hotel. Patti was doing

a poetry reading in NYC.

We were the best observers

the weakest artists.

No year, and nothing to do but straddle the centuries.

No Vacancy

I slept under crumbled bridges,

car lights reflecting pothole prisms,

When I lost my soul to the

gods of: drugs



dead poets

sharp philosophers

listless writers.

Our glowing graffiti—illegal,

polaroids, opioids

a tower of glossy tabloids—

Past inflated—dated bottles

majestic little lanterns

erupting enlightened.

You filled in a spotlight for me,

In neon bars I slaved in,



emptied, lonely rebel—

just another female poet, a fitted slave,

I became your Metaxa maid.

No more niceties.

As the antihero you were made to be:

under a highway bridge


stuffed inside a glass pillow, evoking

cult leaders.

A revelation I named Vacant Lot.

Christina Strigas is a trilingual poet, raised by Greek immigrants, and has written three poetry books. Her latest, Love & Vodka, has been featured by CBC Books in, “Your Ultimate Canadian Poetry List: 68 Poetry Collections Recommended by You.”

She is currently working on her fourth upcoming poetry book, Love & Metaxa.

In her spare time, Christina enjoys foreign cinema, reading the classics, and cooking traditional Greek recipes that have been handed down from her grandmother.

#poetry #issue1 #ChristinaStrigas

115 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

the cankerous grackles in the parking lots swarming in synchronicity like a biblical plague they don’t scare easy no matter how mean you make your face instead they congregate right in your path and t

across the room from me, my guitar pulses bright colors, throbs dreams I can’t ignore. I think about sleep but the music’s too loud. my guitar sprouts lilies not intended to twine, purrs of birds I’ll

Hope to Thaw If I were frozen in the ground, I’d hope to thaw. I’m left with muddy footprints and sticky fingers- I’m a thief. I stole what I needed to survive: a wet tongue, a Celtic cross against a

bottom of page