WHAT SETTLES WHEN WE LAY OUR BODIES DOWN TO REST

by Paula J. Lambert

Source: The New York Times

Really, it’s just the claggy kind of snot struggling

to decide if it wants to stay low in your chest—

 

where your heart beats and every breath passes

through—or if, rising, clinging to the last breath,

 

it has the strength to finally release itself

to the world. We know by now what can travel 

 

on the tiny particles of our gasping exhalations: 

disease, devotion, the promise that death is no end. 

 

We might wish otherwise, drifting in and out 

of these strange dreams of drowning. We know

 

what happened in Nepal, North Carolina, Texas. 

We all might be called mystics when, prone, 

 

our bodies wrestle with desire, each wobble of faith 

in our resolve to go on a little death of its own.  

Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published eleven collections of poetry including Terms of Venery, Revised (Sheila-Na-Gig 2025) and Sinkhole (Bottlecap 2025). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.

ODE TO JALEN BRUNSON

by Kirby Olson

Before a crowd of 10,000

we watched the fifth game at Pier 17.

 

The guy next to me was from Astoria.

He told me golf was his favorite

 

sport, because he loved the lawns.

A black kid said he wanted the upstate

 

residential college experience,

and his knees hurt from bball.

 

June 13th, we spent the day

looking for Swedish candy.

 

Everyone was wearing a Knicks jersey,

even in tiny parks such as Seward.

 

That night, Brunson took out Wemby

by using his size advantage.

 

He could get a quicker start

with Hezis; he could start and stop.

 

Wemby jerked around on baby giraffe legs.

Growing frustrated, he mushed Brunson.

 

The crowd began to hate the French giant.

FU, Wemby, was heard, as the giant got the whistle again.

 

Frustration grew, and the kid next to me said that

a Spurs teen had been put in a coma at the MSG location.

 

I tried to find that on my phone, but I couldn’t.

We hated the Goliath, but remembered he was 22,

 

So we loved the mature Brunson as he wove in and out,

and stopped the questionable flopping

 

of the previous year.

This year, he drove like a barracuda,

 

his head was sheathed like a woodpecker.

He had the strength of ten gorillas.

 

He went in like a kingfisher,

but more than all that he was human.

 

He married young and loved his child.

His wife was there for him.

 

We loved that he was an American

and had seemingly no hatred for the Spurs.

 

He said in many ways he preferred Texas

because the taxes in NY were so terrible.

 

His friendship with Kat and Anunobe,

his laughter with Bridges and Hart,

 

his wearing of the helmet to avoid

eye sting from champagne;

 

We loved it all, as orange and blue prevailed!

Kirby Olson is a poet who lives in the Catskills and who occasionally visits the city. He plays adult basketball and isn't very good. His most recent book of poetry is called Night Shift at the Utopian Turtletop Factory (Half-Inch, 2026).

DATA CENTERS

by Mariana Mcdonald

   

  For Abeline, Texas

As farmers say goodbye to farms

and crops lie withering on the soil,

the eyes of AI tech bros widen,

enthralled with prospects of cheap land

soon on the selling block, to build

gigantic Data Centers, some the size

of Central Park like the one in Abeline,

meant to make “its own” energy,

with ten gas turbines, fifty planned,

five dozen diesel generators, to power

an industry that plots and plunders.

While locals gaze at threatened vistas

of endless fields framed by the sun,

breathe toxic air and drink dank water,

face raised bills for heat and cooling, 

Data Centers generate heat islands.

All horrors hidden by a scheme of secrecy

and NDAs, without a single question posed

to those who live there: “Do you want this?

Give consent? Are there ways it hurts you?”

The CEOs don’t want to hear from locals,

use permits that will circumvent them,

don’t want to hear about the headaches, asthma.

To them, all land is an AI site without a people,

for an AI industry without a site. Their tax breaks

gut the county budgets, cutting schools and fire  

departments, while AI moguls’ pockets overflow.

A painful microcosm of the plague that daily

spreads and grows, infects, now kills our nation.

But people are not silent or compliant. 

They rise up angry all around the country,

from Oregon to Texas to Virginia, protest

three thousand Data Centers up and running,

fifteen hundred more planned or in process.

“You can’t drink data!” people cry, and so far, 

they’ve blocked sixteen Centers in seven states.

Erin Brockovich is back in headlines, hosts

a website tracking Data Centers, while arrogant  

tech oligarchs brush off concern for how AI

is damaging where we live and how we think.

From sea to littered sea the fight is growing.

Governors, reps, and senators take action,

call for moratoriums with enforcement

of new rules for how Centers are greenlit.

Let struggle be how we stop this violation

of the Earth, the land, the waters, air, and

people, in this dangerous time of cruelty

and corruption, fraught with lawless

theft and broad denial of basic rights

we fought for, won, and we want back.

Oh, Abeline, Abeline! May your heavenly vistas

remain, with turquoise skies and dappled sunsets.

May the air you breathe be poison-free and fitting

for all your toiling people, and all life.

 

Mariana Mcdonald is a poet, writer, activist, and scientist. Her work has been published and anthologized widely. A southerner with lifelong ties to Puerto Rico, she lives in Atlanta.

DROPPING OFF THE NATIVITY

by Tricia Knoll

For the community of Winooski [Vermont], the week following Thanksgiving began with a disturbing absence: a second-grade student’s desk was empty. What followed was a rapid-fire sequence of press releases, emotional pleas, and contradictory reports that have left many Vermonters confused about how a seven-year-old boy went from a holiday road trip to a federal detention center in Texas. —Compass Vermont, December 7, 2025

Handmade of painted paper mâché, the figures of the old nativity scene rest in the tattered box I pick up at the church bazaar for $2. Baby Jesus. A goat. Two men with lambs on their shoulders. Mary. Joseph. Five wise men bearing gifts. Two identical angels hinting this might be a combination from two original sets. A blue angel who cannot stand up. A flimsy barn and dry grass. I leave it on the doorstep where my favorite children live, hoping someone might tell the children the story of outcasts, love and humble housing. How Christmas got its name. Even if they use pagan filters. A text arrives: their house doesn’t do nativity. It’s going to Goodwill. I ask for it back. The news: ICE pulled over a seven-year-old and his mother in Illinois. Originally from Ecuador, they live in the town just upriver from me. The child’s school was the first declared sanctuary school in Vermont. The mother and child are now in detention in Texas. The superintendent of schools works to raise money for legal aid, to help the father contact them. Inside me sounds like sanctuary, mercy, peace, star of hope and love reverberate like the striking of a distant temple bell. 

Tricia Knoll's hometown of Williston, Vermont is the center of ICE's national data collection and the place scouring social media to find evidence of immigrants without citizenship. She is a poet currently writing in prose. Her chapbook The Unknown Daughter was recently a finalist in the New England Poetry Club chapbook contest.

TAR

by Jess

The world is burning, 

So I took a lighter and match, 

And set fire to my craft, 

So my nails could saw and sear my keyboard, 

So black plastic can burn and rise, 

Sting wide nostrils, smoke Spanish shaped eyes, 

With memories of my community in zip ties, 

Hoping its loud clack might drown and drown, 

The images of  that little girls tears, 

As her mom was forcefully pushed down, 

By a non-native in a black vest,

Twisting our poetry into tar, 

To gag our syllables and curls, 

As white women recorded and watched, for their performative internet fodder, 

A small brown girl escorted home, without her father. 

So I go deep in the iambics of colonizer language, 

Because they cut, lynched and burned our tongues, 

In the Rio Grande of Texas,

And from Boston, 

I can hear the screams of Chicago and Canal Street. 

They can come and hang me from the Texas Oak Trees, 

In high June, 

Before they take the words  in me,

They can tighten the rope, 

Make it a hundred degree day, 

Scorched earth and crackling grass, 

The smell of magnolias and cookouts, 

They will see the blue come over me, 

Before they take the Mexican me. 

Jess is a Mexican American / Arab Proxmate human rights activist and writer from South Texas. She has been nominated for a PEN Robert J. Dau Prize and Pushcart Prize for her story "Feathers." Her poetry and op-eds have been published by Dissident Voice, The International Human Rights Art Movement, Poets x Hunger, and Missing Perspectives. She has forthcoming work with Writers Resist and Radical Catalyst Literary Journal. She holds a masters from Brandeis in Conflict Resolution. 

A TEXAS HAIKU

A Republican-led committee of the Texas House voted on Saturday to advance a new congressional map drawn to flip five Democratic House districts in favor of Republican candidates, setting up a showdown over redistricting next week… Several Democratic members of Congress came to Austin to testify, arguing that the proposed map would diminish the power of Black and Hispanic communities across Texas and violate the federal Voting Rights Act. Al Green, a congressman from Houston, said the map was “racist.” —The New York Times, August 2, 2025

William Cullen Jr. is a veteran and works at a social services non-profit in Brooklyn, NY. His poetry has appeared in Canary, Farming Magazine, Spillway, The American Journal of Poetry, Turtle Island Quarterly, and Written River: A Journal of Eco-Poetics.

 

DON’T POINT FINGERS. DON’T ASK EVIL QUESTIONS.

by Raymond Nat Turner

This was a one in One Hundred Year Event!
One in Five-Hundred Year Event!
One in One Thousand Year Event—
Biggest, baddest— worst-est ever!

This was a one in One Hundred Year Event!
One in Five-Hundred Year Event!
One in One Thousand Year Event—
All we can do is prey—and Drill, baby drill!

In the Lone Star State, mass casualty events are
Football games. Games played for fossil fuels—sudden death
Over … time as droughts, wildfires, hurricanes, tornadoes,
Flash floods chant dire warnings, “We will, we will, rock you!”

In the Lone Star State, mass casualty events are
Football games. And our children are 5th round draft choices— 
Cut—or carted off fields so sponsors’ and owners’ overstuffed
Pockets stay as swollen as Guadalupe River banks

But you’ll be fine. Be grate again— when your
Children get to Heaven. No tariffs in heaven! Get on
With your lives! Go out and get Crypto— And get on
With your lives! Get Bitcoin— And get on with your lives!

Don’t ask evil questions. Don’t point fingers! Your children 
Are in a better place. Price of eggs won’t be half as high in
Heaven! Go out and get some Crypto— And get on with 
Your lives! Get Bitcoin— And get on with your lives!

Don’t point fingers! Don’t ask evil questions. Of course we’re
First Responders. Responding First, Populate “Alligator Alcatraz;” 
Responding First, Big Beautiful Bill the 99%; DOGE— FEMA,
NOAA and DEI—fire anyone Black, competent, or rocking seniority.

Responding First, Meddle in Mexico; Rename The Gulf of Mexico.
Monkey with Canada as 51st state. Strong-arm Panamanians over
Their canal. Gangster Greenland; Bully Brazil over
Internal matters; And ship shackled Venezuelans to El Salvador.

Responding First, partner killing Palestinians. Bomb Yemen. 
Strike Somalia. Incite suicidal trade war with China—Ride 
Wall Street’s bull— like a tariff roll-a-coaster. Terrorize Chicago 
Children; Mess with LA’s mayor; Wreck Cali’s Economy!

Don’t point fingers! Don’t ask evil questions.
All we can do is weigh on you—
Prey on you.    All we can do is
Pray for you—We can’t pay for you!

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

I CAN’T HEAR YOU

by Chad Parenteau

the chief 

of sticks

proclaimed.

Too busy

turning on

faucets

 

hoping to

sluice away

immigrants

 

back down

to Mexico. 

Water. 

 

It goes 

right down

the hole.

 

Know that

from pre-k

diarrhea.

 

Excuse me.

Listening

for cracks

 

and all of

the people

falling through.

 

Once screams

finally stop

close hole.

 

Not right now.

Reapplying 

ear stigmata.

 

Need to have

gold card to

reach in here.

 

Have these 

documents 

to soak out

 

in deep south

salted by tears

of crocodiles 

 

that are now

jealous of 

our alligators.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest collection is The Collapsed Bookshelf. His poetry has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and anthologies such as French Connections and Reimagine America. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine.