THIS YEAR, WE MARCH ON MY BIRTHDAY

by Ann E. Wallace

I was born in a springtime blizzard. 

     I know to expect storms that run roughshod 

over delicate crocuses poking their stubby 

 

buds from the hard, freeze-weary earth. 

     I read the news each day—of men trafficking 

in children with bluster and impunity,

 

of blue butterfly girls detained in cells, 

    out of sight, where they learn to withstand 

the cold sting of humanity’s turned back 

 

and our leaders’ smug shrugged shoulders. 

    This is the way winter is, they say. 

But seasons change. And I know, 

 

in my small, weathered body, we are built 

   to stand up to gales and thunder, to the old 

guard of winter’s flailing bravado.

These storms, we will ride them out. We stretch 

   and yawn, gather force under hostile conditions. 

Today, we call forth a new season.

Ann E. Wallace is Poet Laureate Emeritus of Jersey City, New Jersey and the author of Keeping Room(Nixes Mate, 2026), Days of Grace and Silence: A Chronicle of COVID's Long Haul (Kelsay Books, 2024) and Counting by Sevens (Main Street Rag, 2019). You can follow her on Instagram @annwallace409.

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS

by Ann E. Wallace

The swift punishment brought down on Zooey Zephyr, a transgender lawmaker in Montana, began over words that others in American politics have used without hesitation or consequence: saying opponents have “blood” on their hands. The governor of Texas. A GOP congressman in Florida. A city councilwoman in Denver. Just in the past few years, they are among the elected officials who have chastised colleagues in government with the same pointed rhetoric almost word for word — accusing them of bearing responsibility for deaths — over everything from immigration policy to gun laws. None faced blowback, let alone retribution. But not Zephyr, who on Thursday began legislative exile after Montana Republicans barred her from the state House floor a week after saying those who voted to support a ban on gender-affirming care would have blood on their hands. —AP, April 27, 2023

This was her warning,

the cost of the ban 

on affirming healthcare 

for trans kids.

 

They would have blood

on their hands,

she said.

 

The words, or her body, labeled 

a breach of decorum,

they removed her,

silenced her voice

with a majority, 68 to 32. 

She may watch,

voiceless, may cast

her singular vote 

out of sight and from afar.

 

Hers is a body they do not want 

to see. And they do not want 

to hear about their own hand 

in doing harm, about the toll 

of bloody-handed legislation 

on kids, or on the adults 

like her who once were kids 

in need of votes and affirmation.

 

They removed her from their sight.

They will wash their hands 

with blood.

And her voice, 

it will grow stronger.

Ann E. Wallace is the Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallace409.

LOOKING FOR ANSWERS ON CHATGPT

by Ann E. Wallace

Tell me about Tyre Nichols.
 
I don’t have any information
about Tyre Nichols as a person 
or a notable public figure.
 
Can you provide more context 
or details about who Tyre is 
or what you’re looking for?
 
Tell me about Tyre’s life.
 
Skateboarding appeals to young men
for several reasons:
     Independence
     Creativity
     Community
     Adventure
     Freedom
 
Skateboarding provides 
a sense of freedom. 
 
Tell me more.
 
Photographing sights of beauty within the city can be
a creative and rewarding hobby for young men.
 
Here are some reasons why:
     Creative outlet
     Exploration
     Documentary
     Social engagement
     Personal growth
 
Photography can help young men 
develop new perspectives, as they learn 
to see the world through a lens 
and express themselves.
 
Tell me about Tyre’s pain.
 
Crohn’s disease 
is a type of inflammatory bowel 
disease.
 
Symptoms include: 
     Pain
     Rectal bleeding
     Weight loss
     Fatigue.
 
Assault, such as being punched
or kicked, can cause intense physical pain,
further exacerbating these symptoms.
 
Tell me about his heart.
 
Parenting a 4-year can be both rewarding
and challenging. 
     Encourage independence.
     Foster creativity.
     Set boundaries. 
     Encourage physical activity. 
     Promote language development. 
     Use positive reinforcement. 
     Show affection.
     Be patient.
 
To help a 4-year old grieve
     Be honest
     Keep the memory alive
     Take care of yourself
 
To help a mother grieve
    Listen
    Respect her feelings
    Be patient

Tell me.
 
To help a nation heal
    Address the root causes
    Encourage reconciliation
    Foster
    Encourage
    Support
    Address
    Foster
    Encourage action
 
These steps are not exhaustive.
Process your emotions
Seek information
Take action
Stay informed
Practice Self Care.
 
Please tell me something about Tyre.
 
In Memphis, the sunsets in January 
are usually beautiful, 
a stunning display of warm
and vibrant colors.
 
The angle of the sun 
is lower in the sky,
which can result in longer
and more dramatic sunsets 
as the sun takes longer
to dip below the horizon.
 

Author’s note: I composed this poem by curating language from the AI platform ChatGPT's responses to a series of questions (not exclusively those in the poem) about Tyre Nichols. ChapGPT, an incredibly powerful artificial intelligence resource that has been touted as able to handle the most complex challenges, cannot begin to capture who Tyre Nichols was and what his life meant. It fails, just like humans so often do, to measure a life.

Ann E. Wallace is Poet Laureate of Jersey City, NJ, where she is an English Professor at New Jersey City University. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News, Huffington Post, Wordgathering, Gyroscope Review, and many other journals. Her published work is available online at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Instagram @annwallace409.

A LOADED GUN

by Ann E. Wallace

after Emily Dickinson

by C.B.

Had my life but stood 

a loaded gun, I might have 

roamed these sovereign states

with ease and in the open.

 

But though this woman’s body

may live longer than its lover,

or its foe, it receives no such 

constitutional protections.

 

We grant inalienable safeguards 

to our guns, as to the men who

cock and press the sacred trigger

with force and as they please.

 

If I were indeed that loaded gun, 

my liberty to choose, to carry 

or to abort, would be a right 

that is secured in perpetuity.

Ann E. Wallace is a poet and essayist from Jersey City, New Jersey. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallace409.

PINKY PROMISES

by Ann E. Wallace

“Pinky Promise” by Joseph Patton

Can you see it?

The shredding of precious 

organs, of slim muscles and growing

bones, of smiles and baby teeth,

of dimples and pinky promises, 

when weapons meant for war

open fire on 40- and 50-pound

children crouching under desks,

hiding behind racks of graded 

readers, and huddling

in the pretend play center.

 

Can you imagine

what damage has been 

wreaked when a mother must 

recall the neatly pressed 

dress or red striped shirt 

her third grader selected 

for the end of school festivities, 

two days before summer break, 

when a father must swab 

his cheek or offer a vial of blood 

to confirm that the shattered 

remains held in the morgue 

belong to his darling child?

 

How as a nation 

do we bear that another 

community has been asked 

to be patient, that parents 

were again told to not pick up 

their kids, not yet, when they heard 

the news, so as not to cause chaos—as if

parents’ terror caused this mayhem—

until officials have finished scouring

the brightly colored classrooms 

for small victims, until doctors

have saved those they could

and zipped those they could not 

into oversized body bags, until 

every student has been accounted for,

until nineteen sets of parents 

have learned they will never 

again pick up their children?

 

How do we justify

that while the devastated 

people of Uvalde have waited 

in desperation for their children 

to be accounted for, 

no one is holding 

our leaders accountable? 

 

Ann E. Wallace is a poet and essayist from Jersey City, New Jersey. Her published work can be found at AnnWallacePhD. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallacephd.com.

THIS DANGEROUS PLACE

by Ann E. Wallace

New Jersey’s virus transmission rate jumped to 1.35 and Governor Phil Murphy warned of rising cases due to a lack of compliance with mask and social distancing rules. The state, where cases peaked months ago, is in “a very dangerous place,” Murphy said at a Trenton news conference. Photographer: Michael Mancuso/Pool via Getty Images —Bloomberg News, August 1, 2020

We are standing 

in a very dangerous place

calling the children to peer over the edge

of the precipice

as if it is a class trip

to the Grand Canyon.

We call out be safe,

don’t go too far,

but also 

don’t lag,

you need to be here,

we are here because of you. 

Yet we know 

that when one falls, 

others, 

perhaps we, 

will follow, 

linked arm 

to arm 

like a barrel

of plastic monkeys

tossed 

over the edge.

And though many 

will break free,

catch themselves

on ledges and climb up 

scraped,

battered, bruised, 

to laugh at the close 

call or scoff 

that it was nothing, 

a breeze even, 

some 

will fall

all the way 

down.

Ann E. Wallace is a longhaul COVID-19 survivor, writing essays and poetry on the pandemic from her home in Jersey City, NJ as she recovers. Her poetry collection Counting by Sevens (2019) is available from Main Street Rag. She is on Twitter @annwlace409.

FOOL'S GOLD

by Ann E. Wallace

Reckitt Benckiser, the maker of UK cleaning brand Dettol and US brand Lysol, issued stark advice to consumers on Friday, saying it had a responsibility to help with myth-busting: “As a global leader in health and hygiene products, we must be clear that under no circumstance should our disinfectant products be administered into the human body,” it said in a statement on its website.

The president wondered today
if we might wipe out the pandemic
with disinfectant, like we swipe
over doorknobs and countertops,
sprayed inside our bodies, or
tremendous amounts of light.

Today was the day that my oxygen
tank was brought to my doorstep
by a man who could not enter
my infected home, could not step
past the tub of chlorine bleach wipes
that I leave outside my door for cleaning.

Tomorrow, may I wake rested, my blood
replenished, fortified and ready to lay waste
to the virus running loose within me,
and may I not read of devout red, white,
and blue Americans newly dead and dying,
cleansed with the bright light of fool’s gold.

Ann E. Wallace is writing poetry and teaching her college classes from home in Jersey City, NJ while she recovers from COVID-19. Her poetry collection Counting by Sevens (2019) is available from Main Street Rag. She is on Twitter @annwlace409.

BREATHLESS

by Ann E. Wallace

I have spent these slow motion
weeks watching the world scramble
and panic through the 8 square inch surface
of my phone, cupped in the palm of my hand.

I hold these 8 square inches in the palm
of my hand, attached to my body
confined to the fifteen square feet
of my couch, or my queen size bed

Up a flight of stairs I cannot walk
without gasping for the air flowing
through my 1800 square foot home,
in my city filled with 270,000 other souls

All gasping for air, and all I need
is enough to pump through my 5’2”
body, not too much, but I can see
on my screen that I am not alone

In my need, and I can see why, though
it all makes no sense, my small body
panting and blacking out on my red couch
inside my red house cannot get enough.

Ann E. Wallace is writing poetry and teaching her college classes from home in Jersey City, NJ while she and her daughter recover from COVID-19. Her poetry collection Counting by Sevens (2019) is available from Main Street Rag, and her published work can be found online at AnnWallacePhD.com. She is on Twitter @annwlace409.

SOUNDINGS

by Ann E. Wallace

In Australia, the magpie 

pipers have sounded the alarm. 

Strange singing sirens lure 

us to belated attention,

whistling their learned panic 

cry as we lean in and stare.

How clever they are, these 

crows turned mocking jays,

turned canaries in the fires.

We pull out our phones, press

record and listen in awe 

at beaked imitation of man

made warning calls. Months, 

years after the flares and shouts 

of scientists, of firefighters,

went unseen, unheard, 

the birds learned too 

late to speak our language. 

As the heat swells, billows

to flame, and sucks each breath 

dry, hot angry licks sneer 

and force us to the water’s edge. 

And the rescue boats come 

too late, too few to heed 

the magpies’ urgent call. 

Ann E. Wallace has a new poetry collection, Counting by Sevens, available from Main Street Rag, featuring work about the realities and joys of life in contemporary America, motherhood, and illness. Recently published pieces in journals such as Mom Egg Review, Wordgathering, Snapdragon, Riggwelter, and Rogue Agent, can be found on her website. Twitter @annwlace409.