SENATOBIA, JUNE 2026

by Eric Goldfarb

SENATOBIA, Miss.—People scattered in a Walmart parking lot on [last] Tuesday as law enforcement officers, who were wearing gas masks and lined up under the store’s grocery-side entrance, unleashed tear gas on the crowd that had gathered to protest the police killing of 1-year-old Kohen Wiley [pictured above]. Two days earlier on June 14, the young Black child died after a Senatobia police officer fired into a moving car, killing him and injuring the driver. Officers, who had been responding to a call alleging that someone had tried to steal a box of diapers, claimed that the car was driving toward the officer when he fired—a claim that some witnesses have disputed. —Mississippi Free Press, June 17, 2026

The report said: one box of diapers.

The report said: they saw the child first.

The report did not say what diapers cost,

only who was made to pay.

Eric Goldfarb writes poems and essays about the quiet reinventions that shape a life. His work appears or is forthcoming in ONE ART, Hippocampus Magazine, Third Wednesday, Midsummer Dream House, Panorama, and elsewhere. After decades in technology and private equity, he returned to the page. He lives with his wife in Atlanta.

ARKABUTLA, MISSISSIPPI WITHIN HOURS OF THE SHOOTING ON FEBRUARY 17

by Tricia Knoll

Law enforcement personnel work at the scene of a shooting, Friday, Feb. 17, 2023, in Arkabutla, Miss. Six people were fatally shot Friday in the small town in rural Mississippi near the Tennessee state line, and authorities said they had taken a suspect into custody. —CNN, February 17, 2023

Small town. 300 people.

Unincorporated. 

Six dead in a shooting

around noon. 

Not many details now.

Man with gun 

pulls into driveways.

Shoots six dead.  

Sheriff: we have arrested

the guy who did it. 

No known motive. 

 

On February 24-25

youth age 10 – 15

are invited to join

a night time guided

raccoon hunt 

over uneven 

terrain which will

observe all age-appropriate

hunting regulations. 

Must be accompanied

by an adult. 

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who understands no town is too small to endure gun violence. Her own hometown experienced a mass shooting within the last six months. She recently learned it may require shooting six squirrels to make a meal.

AFTER THE SUPREME COURT HEARS TESTIMONY ABOUT MISSISSIPPI’S LEGISLATION RESTRICTING A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO CHOOSE

by Katie Kemple

Cartoon by Walt Handelsman, The Advocate

I dream I’m in an auditorium about to see

a show. To the far left, in the dark, sits

Gloria Steinem, her signature straight

hair beneath the twin stems of her aviator

glasses, so calm and beautiful. Even the host

makes eyes at her, tries to grab her attention.

On stage, they roll out a gurney, the lower

half of a woman’s body. I can't see her face.

Others gather around—men from all over

the world, a type of ceremony. I find

my mother and sit behind her, slide

my arm through the space between chairs

to interlock fingers with her. I whisper:

"Gloria is here." But my mother has been

dead for seven years. I'm afraid of what

we're about to see. It's so dark. I can't see. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) writes to make sense of the world. Her work has appeared recently on Longleaf Review, Matter, and The West Review.

SPILLED WATERCOLORS

by Diane Elayne Dees

Tweeted by NASA astronaut Jessica Meir from the International Space Station.

From space, the aqua, cream, azure, and cerulean
appear as if blended by a master painter
with an eye for serenity and expansion. I imagine
a second painting, this one bright, yet soft,
with puffs of spoonbill pink and splashes
of sea turtle green streaked across a peaceful
background of bunting indigo. From space,
the Louisiana delta is an impressionist’s dream
of water and feathers and the reflections
of a stippled sky. Up close, the picture tears
at the edges as the coastline rapidly recedes.
The Rusty Blackbird, black bear and Great Blue
fade behind a foreground of erosion and loss.
From space, the watercolors spill a dream-like
beauty onto a canvas teeming with life,
while the landscape shifts precariously,
altering the perspective forever.

Diane Elayne Dees has two chapbooks forthcoming. Her microchap Beach Days is available for download and folding from Origami Poems Project. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

BEFORE MEMORIAL DAY

by James Penha

Large group of school children, with their teacher, standing in a town street, circa 1850s. Daguerreotype by an unknown photographer. Original in the Daguerreotypes Collection of the Library of Congress.

Which of these boys
in the back rows shucked
his suit for another uniform, packed
a Remington revolver 1858,
a Colt 1860,
or a Beaumont-Adams,
aimed a Pattern Enfield 1853 rifled musket,
a Springfield 1861,
or an M1841 Mississippi Rifle,
held high a Model 1832 foot Artillery Sword,
a Cutlass, or a Bowie knife,
before he was cranked
and grounded by a Gatling
or by J.D. Mill’s Coffee Mill Gun?

And how
many?

Which of their teachers?

Who among the girls cried
for the dead? Who
among the littler
boys?

Who craved
more?

James Penha edits TheNewVerse.News.

LOW BEAMS IN THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA

by James Croteau

Along the Mississippi Delta. Image source: My American Odyssey

Only low beams lit the road

as my parents drove Highway 61

from Memphis through Clarksdale

to Cleveland with civil rights marches

all around us. I never knew

it's not a delta at all, no mouth

until further south. It's all alluvial

plain, this place of my birth. Grandpa

disembarked in Baltimore's harbor

in 1921, moved south when

cotton was still king but

he never planted. Instead he owned

a five and dime on Main Street

in Cleveland. I was proud

to help clerk. Sometimes he'd aim

squinted eyes my way, talk the Italian

he taught me “follow that N-word."

"It's the longest stretch of straight road

east of the Great River," my dad

always said as he drove, low beams

to avoid blinding the oncoming

drivers like us. We got used to not seeing

anything beyond the white

cotton by the side of the road.

Living legacies are often at the periphery

of the privileged. Even amid

outcries at the murders in the streets

and the churches, we whites miss

the lay of the land by

low beaming our questions--

Was the officer following policy?

Was the shooter mentally ill?

Isn't the KKK really to blame?

But I've been lucky, my eyes

have been pried apart by

a few good people. I see some

beyond the well-meant

intentions in front of my face.

The fertile flatness was freely

brought by the floods of the Yazoo

and Mississippi, then it was stolen

and exploited--Indian removal, slavery,

sharecropping, Jim Crow de jure

and de facto, this history's alive and

denied. If I high beam my heart

I can see that I could have been

Darren Wilson, even Dylann Roof.

I learn how the land of my birth

really lies, only when I can feel

the white of my finger placed

everyday on the trigger of the gun

I was given on the day I was born.

James M. Croteau lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with his partner of 28 years, Darryl, and their two Labrador retrievers. Jim grew up gay and Catholic in the southern United States and loved his mother very much. He has had poems published in Hoot: a Postcard review of {mini} poetry and prose, The New Verse News, and Right Hand Pointing. He has a series of poems upcoming in April 2014 in Assaracus: A Journal of Gay Poetry.