OF ALL THINGS

by Jennifer Schneider

Jennifer Crumbley, the mother of the teenager who killed four students pictured above—Madiyson Baldwin, 17; Tate Myre, 16; Justin Shilling, 17; and Hana St. Juliana, 14—at an Oxford, Michigan, high school in 2021, was found guilty Tuesday of all four counts of involuntary manslaughter in a novel legal case that stood as a test of the limits of who’s responsible for a school shooting. —CNN, February 6, 2024

that could have, should have,
been different—

the swish of a three-point shot. shooting stars, solar eclipses. the journey from girl to woman. 
balding men. camera flashes. grilled cheese on slices of Wonder. plucked daffodils. pinches of 
salt. something borrowed. something blue. wedding vows. bare feet on sand. morning waltzes. 

a day, anew.

dimes in jukebox machines. campouts under moonlit skies. crabbing on summer days. a Beatles’
whistle. yellow jackets on lavender petals. the semester’s last exam. anticipation of the daily 
mail. Billy Joel on the radio. parked sedans. Sunday drives with no destination.
 
birthday wishes.
 
candle wax. solar lights. hoops at midnight. blueberry-scented cravings at dawn. whole-grain
muffins before flight takeoff. puddle splashes. watercolor paints in tiny pots. a manual typewriter 
retrieved from a lost and found. the clang of bowling pins. green leaves. Ladybugs on sleeves. 
oversized football jerseys. soiled laundry awaiting freshly scented soaking.  
 
mugs of strawberry lemonade. promises handknit for safekeeping.
unfinished paperbacks. romances with happily-ever-after endings.
untied Converse laces. tied knots and coffee-fueled conversation.
scattered pumpkin seeds. rainbow kites. diaries with tiny keys.
lullabies sung off-key to future generations. goodnight kisses.
 
all the things
that could have, should have,
been different—

instead,
there was no interception —

a blank canvas. multiple strikes.
bullets lodged in metal hoops.
unrepairable tears. no spares.

shooting stars
amidst recurring nightmares.

of all the things,
that could have, should have
been different,

none were spared

Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

(F)LIGHT

by Jen Schneider

Suzanne Somers, who died Sunday, in New York in 2020. Photo:Mark Sommerfeld for The New York Times

As a child,
I’d watch Three’s Company regularly.

Growing up in the 70s and 80s,
I appreciated the sitcom as revolutionary.

From legal work to florist to culinary 
adventurer, I came to believe I could 
live wherever and be whatever I desired.

Later, the show’s offscreen testimony 
taught me more than I ever imagined.

When Suzanne Somers fought for equal pay
and instead received notice of her final day,
I understood that while there might be open
rooms in set apartments, equity
was still off the market.

While Cindy and Terri moved into the room
recently vacated, they never replaced
the space newly renovated. 

Somers embraced her role as a changemaker
at a time when the television was a media 
supremacy. With authentic resiliency, 
she took on turkeys, Ropers, bowling, 
and Wandas in a step-by-step fashion. 

She’d spin wands of words, as Chrissy,
Jack, and Janet created fodder for ideas 
not yet comfortable. In the process, 
she created new spaces for hospitality 
on issues previously closeted. 

Somers was a master at keeping things light 
while taking on the toughest of fights. She spun 
a diet of equal pay and blonde delight. Creator 
of the ThighMaster and a business blaster,
Somers was a fighter of original making. 

Nobody’s fool, 
she wielded the script as a tool. Somers 
never stopped fighting for what she believed, 
from gender parity to healthy living. 

Her memory will forever be a prime-time 
recollection of a life worth regularly revisiting. 

With deep admiration—

Thank you, Suzanne Somers 
May you rest in f(light).

Jen Schneider is a poet, essayist, and educator. She is the author of several books of poetry, with her most recent collection 14 (Plus) Reasons Why, published with free lines press, now available. If she’s not writing, you can find her teaching legal and justice courses in her favorite city.

HIGHLIGHTS

a Back-to-School Abecedarian

by Jen Schneider

as vape pens shaped like highlighters 
bait back-to-school shoppers, and
calendar dates countdown to zero while 
   consumer price indexes shoot for the moon, I
doodle, dabble, and deliberate on 8.5 X 11 
evergreen notepad paper (Cornell pre-prints too costly),
factoring when, if ever, I might be able to retire.
 
gone are the days of happily-ever-after endings, the
hazmat team conducted their first of three scheduled exercises as the
ice cream truck, full of artificially flavored red, white, and blue rockets, circled
just in time for the teaching team’s fifteen-minute extended recess.
 
knowledge always much more than arithmetic, fiction novels, and crafting, but
lately my elementary teacher training (fully laminated) has been saturated with 
metrics and mandates for safety drills, evacuation plans, and 
naughty lists (I inadvertently neglected to submit my PD hours on time). 
 
obscure classroom updates (air conditioning still unaccounted for) battle exhaustion as
prep for required curriculum standards span 3,200-page, unillustrated documents—
    pronouns, prayers, and phonetics sources of persistent debate

quiet time cancelled along with Gender Queer, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Maus,
required reading heavily regulated. the school board’s pencils more pointed than
standard stick-figure sketches. with all of us stretched thinner than Silly Putty,
terrifying wars against AP African American Studies and critical race theory intensify. Sigh. I
 
used to fear bee stings (but now plan for virulent viruses) and I
used to trace united states outlines (but now track threats on social media pages). as
 
verified accounts confuse and Matchbox cars, Lego trucks and resident gerbils 
veer off course (circular cycles and run-ons spiral), while weekends are spent prepping to
 
welcome a new set of smiles in rain slickers, with fresh boxes of Crayola crayons and
X and Y graph paper stocked and stacked like formidable towers—what’s
 
yesterday is now         suddenly  today, and with no available substitutes and

zero room for error, I hope and pray, for a year of highlights, none of which are newsworthy.

Jen Schneider is a poet, essayist, and educator. She is the author of several books of poetry, with her most recent collection 14 (Plus) Reasons Why, published with free lines press, now available. If she’s not writing, you can find her teaching legal and justice courses in her favorite city.

AN ABCEDARIAN ON FOODS I USED TO LOVE

by Jen Schneider

Additives have been debated for years with
bills proposed, then denied. Just this week
California (Assembly Bill 418) has tried. Again. To 
drum up support all while the 
Dollar General can no longer afford to sell 
eggs—a source of dense nutrients. Aisles instead 
full of fruit chews, colorful candies, cookies, cakes. 
     Oh my—Gigantic swaths of shelf space, all prime. 
     Products under fire for
“generally safe to consume” promises with limited review.
Hot Tamales and Skittles. Cupcakes and ice cream, too.
I’d like to know, I say as I chew my microwaved stew,
Is it too much to assume the 

            Foods
            Water
            Poetry
            
            we consume are safe to drink?

Jokes on you, my colleague explains,
     craftiness on all corners
Kraft mac and cheese, too? I ask.
Love you, but yes, she says – 

      phthalates, 
      plastics involved in processing, plus 
      fat content

loopholes in laws persist
more foods make the danger list
Nerds? Double Bubble Twist gum? Not good news
Open the cabinets but be warned – there’s
propylparaben in caramel chocolate and high sugar in Nestle
Quik. Red Dye No 3. lurks in 

     protein shakes
     instant rice and potato products, and 
     cake mixes.

Rare is the boxed life form that doesn’t make the graph or
score in the game of
Skittles, Screams, Sell More

      Who. What. Where. 
      When. Why.      

The economist and poet in me wants to know.
      With 3,000 Red Dye No. 3 data points and 

that’s just the beginning—is relief in store?

Trolli Gummies and Trail mix, too. 
Titanium Dioxide can be found in cupcakes and ice cream. 
Underreported and overconsumed. 

     My graphs are in toil. 
     My plotting doomed.

Values collide. 
Voracious marketing blooms
ways of fudging ingredient lists
with words I can’t spell or repeat 

titanium dioxide
potassium bromate
brominated vegetable oil 

phthalates and 
propylparaben 

Xtra-large Slurpees, too? 

Yogurts with bright red candy mix-ins.

Zero room for error. We wait. We philosophize. We think. 

Is the safety of our food supply too big a drink?

Author's Note: When ABCs Collide with Plot Points

As an econ major, I’ve long been interested in prisoner dilemmas, graphs that map (seek to match) supply and demand, and hikes of varying natures. On levels both macro and micro, I’ve wrestled with data and wondered, what is too much to ask. Of consumers. Of suppliers. Of truth tellers. Of faulty logic deniers. It’s a delicate dance. Public health and behavior as much commodities as any other letter that becomes targeted then charted as a supply meets demand number. Analytics morph in ways analogous to philosophy and experimental poetry. Personal choice a waltz subject to underutilized form and (sometimes) overindulged scorn. Ethics aside. No matter. Whether graphed in pencil and ink or AI-generated ChatGPT-think, I still believe that assuming one’s food supply is safe shouldn’t present an oxymoron (enjambments and plot points undenied). Instead, I accept realities, however baffling, I cannot change and bid farewell to a handful of foods (and ABCs) I used to love. 

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

ON FIRSTS IN (AND OF) A SERIES

by Jen Schneider

many viewed a sit-down with the master

as a sign they had arrived, when the truth

seeker knew it was she that would steer 

the conversation

to destinations named 

truth—dissimilar

all the same—amidst 

streetcars of desire 

and paths of

many 

firsts

breaks

airwaves

all in a series of views 

and viewers—direct

questions, big scores,

time (and timely) covers

gets and galas

days and nights

anchors and achings

ports and payscales

spoofs and spares

drivers and dares

trees and trials

fears and fashions

trials and televisions

presidents and precedents

interns and internments

ladders and legacies

truth, 

done right

always (and all)

knowing

that arrivals 

are relative and truths 

measured—

in a series

of stand-ups

and sit-downs

up down

across town

paths

well sown

it’s not goodbye

it’s not goodnight

it’s not farewell

it’s 20-20 vision,

mountains climbed,

broadcasts traversed

her way

an unmeasurable

and irreplaceable

first 

a fabulous

lady

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

MORE THAN A CITY OF NUMBERS / A CITY OF NAMES

by Jen Schneider

This maps the victims of gun violence: 1,445 nonfatal and 377 fatal shooting victims as of Oct 2, 2022. —Mapping Philadelphia's Gun Violence Crisis

Philadelphia—

a city of brotherly love 

/ life

more than a city of numbers

/ a city of names

from firsts—

home to the first library, hospital & botanical garden 

            to never quenched thirsts—

grills for infinite steak shops (Pat’s, Geno’s, Tony’s, Nick’s)

a city 

of names & numbers 

/ numbers & names

on the same day the mayor signed an order

for no more guns in the city’s

indoor and outdoor recreation centers 

housed at the corner of numbered

streets, broad, & main

three teams met for a football scrimmage

dozens of players took the field

the temperature a beautiful seventy degrees. 

Autumnal air. Hundreds of passes.

Countless yards gained.

Clocks ticked. Players walked.

The 6000 block of Ridge Avenue.

The 4700 block of Pechin Street.

Zip code 19128. Latitude

and longitude measures of degree.

Suddenly

a shooting spree

Hundreds flee

five gunmen

sixty-four bullets

souls in school clothes drop

to date, in 2022

more than four hundred

Philadelphia-based lives lost

a tragic milestone man-made

a city 

of names & numbers 

/ numbers & names

all of these lives have names

Nicholas.Tiffany.Jose.Steven.Michael.Byron.Tyrell.Dominque.Quianyon.Eddie.Zachariah.Robert.Gerard.Margaret.Lauren.Kasani.Tracey.Chrichnard.Francisca.Tyjon.David.Daquan.Nafee.James.Stacy.Tyheim.Justin.Ry’Keir.Jerome.Sindrell.Tony.Michael.Melvin.Byron.Calvin.Robert.Shawn.Fernand.Daren.Hope.David.Jamal.Charles.Marc.Taion.Bertha.Abdel.Ameer.Lameer.James.Achilles.Shakuur.Irving.Jahsier.Rashed.Kelvin.Stephon.Robert.Joelil.Yusairah.Mary.Gabriel.Leanne.Damon.Rahssan.more.many more. these lives have names. a city of numbers. a city of names.

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

ON ACRONYMS (G.O.A.T.) AND ACCOLADES (GREATNESS)

by Jen Schneider

I’ve always believed in the power (mostly potential) of greatness. Up and down streets of small-town USA. It’s the American way. From the East to the West. Up and down coasts. Across the boulevard. Behind boarded storefronts. Above tent cities and soaring skyscrapers. Gold rushes (and crushes) as believable as spinning compass dials. Proof in palms. Sweat both a track and a sweet tactic. Electricity both pushes and pulls. Magnetic magnanimity. All senses engaged. Eyes sparkle. All moves traced. Energy (& greatness) on display. 

Tonight, I witnessed it. The G.O.A.T. First-hand. On live TV (with an intermittent signal). From the irregularly regular comfort of a green corduroy couch. All limbs locked. All cushions plucked. Some patched. Others poked. Even the puppy ceased chewing (both cushions and bones) to watch (perhaps chase). Greatness a moving target. And a mobilizer. Time may tick (and trick) but greatness warms then lingers. In layers (six U.S. Open titles and tiers) and longing. Of myths and mothers. Of champions and messages that extend championship miles. Of catsuits and ankle-grazing boots. In smiles and original styles. Hi-tops and lo-cuts. Sequins and Lycra trims. Authentic and relentless. Shine and sheer. All dress coded. All rackets loaded. 

All the world’s a stage. Bounded of boundaries erased in thin air. Fans in stands. Teams behind the scenes. Youngsters with big dreams. Bottoms boosted by stacks of paper reams. Elders with small screens and oversized spectacles. Spectators (both in and of person) cup (and capture) promise in the palms of their hands and the sweetness of their gasps. Puffs of breath signal. Proof of behavior beyond all reasonable dreams. From hard courts to grass lots. From clay corners to concrete towers. From humble beginnings of seeds and sprouts. We’re only as strong as our supports. Even the always ready-for-sleep canine got caught up in the game. Foundations fuel fire. Balls of soft yellow fuzz inspire both chases and champions. Also companions. 

As the biggest names in sports flooded the airwaves, my husband pulled his racket from the attic. I considered my own tutu (long boxed). Grabbed Nikes, shorts, and night-lit keys. I laced, then tied my rubber-soled sneakers. His were a tad too tight (along with the shorts). Mine a tad too bright (neon green no longer felt right). Sparkle and lace always a fan. It was late but we made it a date. Leash on the dogs. Feet on pavement. Rackets in hand. We’ve never been dressed of accolades. Kool-Aids our beverage of choice. Tonight, we ran then hit then hollered. Rates (accuracy and time) no longer mattered. 

Greatness is gentle. A guide with nothing to hide. We were happy to be (beside and then on the court). There was no need to ace. No need to race. Greatness not only inspires it never tires. Age just as much as adage as a fuel for new stages. 

It’ll be a while, I think. To challenge the greatness, we saw on display. No desire to conform. Spectacular in a self-chosen uniform. Stats may stock and stack. Always at the ready. Some to be stored and others to react. Commentators eager to even all scores. Time is tricky. It passes in a blink. It’s the (even when fleeting and even when tried) American way. Tonight, I witnessed greatness. Under open air. Dances, daring, and destiny on magnificent display. 

Thank you, Serena. Your impact (and all you’ve made seen) will extend long and far beyond your effect. What I’ll remember most from my watch (and your reign) is your smile and your irrepressible passion for always, without fail, going the extra mile. Not to mention your incredible sense of fashion. You may not know our names, but your game inspires dreams beyond the threats of time and traditional means. Of G.O.A.T.s and accolades. Time and again—Greatness on display. 

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

ON ART, LINES & EARTH(LINGS)

by Jen Schneider

in honor of James Longenbach (1959-2022)

“Hold the line, please,” the hospital operator says

and all i can think

/ while waiting, wondering, worrying

—mostly wanting

is this must be how poems get made

Longenbach teaches poetry as the sound 

of language (organized in lines)

while physicists teach sound as a type of pressure 

/ a wave & not physical matter 

& that non-physical matter can’t be held  

—but consumed / like a sunburn, a shooting star,

a child’s cry, a first kiss 

/ two people at the end of a dock

/ a gust of wind (of a sea) 

            i inhale / then try

            to hold the line

cup my palm / & imagine

            coiled elastic compressions

            

            pressure creases 

            shadow / then settle

i pull / the line pushes

            all springs (& senses) engaged

Longenbach writes on a poem’s life & death

in concerted arrangements of syllables / patterns 

broken or reinforced

/ line, meter, & rhyme all tools of construction 

/ danglers & run-ons distanced / some say decried

            

            i cry—unexpectedly / 

            poetry is like that / “the sound 

of language organized / in the line”

 

with punctuated breath & cupped palms, 

i consume syllabic beats 

for what feels like forever knowing forever 

is neither a state of physical matter nor finite

/ despite earthling’s desires / all spiral cords 

(& choruses) prone to tangle. all moons cyclical

 

The operator returns & says, “I’m sorry.

We can’t locate the clerk,” at the same time

an overhead speaker buzzes / sound waves press

i hear, “We can’t locate the lyric.”

—& hang up, wishing to continue to hold the line

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

ON GRAND SLAM BREAKFASTS (AT DENNY’S) & FRESH OCTOBER HITS (AT BAT)

by Jen Schneider

On Sunday, nearly six years after he took his final ferocious cut for the Red Sox, Ortiz reveled in his crowning baseball moment. An iconic figure in two nations—Red Sox Nation and the Dominican Republic—Ortiz was formally inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot. This, on the strength of a 20-year career that included 541 home runs. —MLB, July 25, 2022

imagine a morning meal / at a table of wood – oak or maple / of eggs over easy & bacon over done / imagine a stack of flapjacks, three pats of butter, cut in squares / all corners rounded, all linens tucked / imagine a mug of coffee, freshly brewed / bottomless pots / imagine a bleacher seat / freshly dusted, storied & stamped / of fingertips that wriggle then wrestle with cloudless skies / imagine a collection of wooden bats / of ash or maple / mahogany no longer in favor / imagine a man at bat / made of designated grand slam moments / and designer cleats on bases / mostly first / imagine five hundred & fifty-eight home run hits / of which eleven are grand slams  / fingers grip lumber, palms cradle knobs / balls tightly stitched / wriggle then wander / under and of cloudless skies of wonder / all souls soar / into an october night / imagine a man bigger than any moment / at bat

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

SITTING ON A TOILET :: ALONE WITH A BED OF ROSES

by Jen Schneider

a group of seven women, all in their late teens, wear white tee shirts of various cuts - scoop, crew, tank – one with spaghetti straps. another with scalloped edges. all on edge. each has a denim bucket hat. each carries a green patent leather (faux) handbag (freshly polished, purchased for $19.99 the night before). one holds a pair of scissors and removes price tags. i sit on a toilet (enraged and in close range / out of sight but not out of fright) and count - sneakers (mostly converse, some ked) and minutes (mostly spinning, some spun). each woman’s tee bears a unique logo: my body my choice; overturn roe - hell no; abortion on demand; abortion without apology; abortion = health care; forced birth is enslavement; shame on you scotus. the letters’ order differ. the order of their message is the same. the women’s bags hold a mix of sundries (bobby pins, breath mints, band aids) and sprays (deodorant - lilac / pepper - precautionary). the women exchange salutations (i’d say good morning but it’s not) and apply sunblock with an SPF of 50 to each other’s bare backs (each has the others’ backs). i am not of them, though i am one of them. each of them is one of me. i know what they carry as well as i know myself. and as little as i know my next steps. one girl takes note of the block print SPF 50 and pauses. fifty years of precedent if not progress / protection if not precaution – gone, she says. the others agree. i take notes (both physical and mental) while i sit in an adjacent bathroom stall, the window’s cover (blinds though not blinded) is open just enough for me to hear them and angled just enough for me to see them, and wonder what to do next. i sit - my middle bent, my legs form a soft v. that my fingers mimic. a cramp pulses and i instinctively smooth the purple corduroy jumper with no waist (a button down, fully buttoned) that covers my torso and jump. i can think of nothing other than rabbits and holes and time and ticking clocks. my eyes track an analog clock affixed to the white cinderblock wall. both hands move – backward. i’m trapped and will soon grow large / the challenge larger. i mouth silent curses and nearly snap. oh dear / oh dear. the women snap photos – mostly selfies – and laugh. their high-pitched voices (of innocence not yet incensed) remind me of a childhood quilt – one with snoopy, hello kitty, and strawberry shortcake patches / hand-stitched. i no longer recognize my own hands – most nails are bitten, all cuticle beds are raw." bed of roses" once a favorite song. i remain on the toilet. wounded though not wasted. and try hard to reclaim a moment / a morning – i don’t know how. the women continue to chatter. one says, we shouldn’t / it’s not the right time. another replies, it’s the only time / we must. and they do - i watch them coat their lips in thick cherry red gloss. i squint and inhale, then flush. i exhale and groan. "bed of roses" plays – somewhere / perhaps nowhere. the women silence. are you okay, one whispers. her eyes track then trace the source of my vocals. their postures shift. i see my reflection (green) in the sheen of her patent leather purse and reply - i do not know. of all the things i’ve ever believed, i’ve never felt more alone.

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.