THE FIRST HUNDRED DAYS

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

If you can see the moon from your window
even through the wall of branches
then it is calling you to worship.
Hard to stay in bed,
impossible to stay in the house.  
If you can see the moon from the front porch,
you can see raccoons and the seven doe
in blue shadows. The owl wonders
what you are doing here.  Thick
wandering roots reach from the trees, 
dusted with a skin of snow, like veins 
on the backs of your hands going 
where they must go. 
If you can see the moon from Earth,
the cataclysm is still in the future.
Your breath is a cloud without shape.

Elizabeth Kerlikowske’s latest chapbook is Falling Women, with painter Mary Hatch.

TO THE PLASTIC I SHARE THIS BODY WITH

by Laura Grace Weldon

Microplastic Pollution Is Everywhere, Even in the Exhaled Breath of Dolphins —Discover, October 28, 2024

You and your kind have been with me since 

my teething toy days. Since doll faces kissed

and freeze pops squeezed from clear cold tubes. 

 

Since hand-me-down raincoats and Halloween masks. 

Since yogurt cups and zippered sandwich bags.  

You’re in my clothes, my water, my breakfast. 

 

I now know you’re in my blood. 

In everyone's blood. 

In our breast milk, brains, muscle, hearts. 

 

You are carried in the bodies of snowy owls and orcas,

bonobos and brown bears and baobab trees.  

You are exhaled in dolphin breath. 

 

You ride through air and oceans, ride through us. 

When we die, you will persist

for thousands of years.

 

We humans dream of leaving a legacy  

but not like this. 

Not like this.

Laura Grace Weldon lives in a township too tiny for traffic lights where she works as a book editor, teaches writing workshops, serves as Braided Wayeditor, and chronically maxes out her library card. Laura was Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books. 

WARNING

by Jacob Richards

Dangerous air today
they say,
as if i could hold my breath
or turn back the industrial revolution.

Dangerous air today.
Forests burn all around us
old growth turned sunlight 
into sugars
a strange alchemy
now turning sugars into 
a carbon haze
and air quality alerts.

Dangerous air today.
An “I-told-you-so moment”
if only I could catch my breath.
Ed Abbey laughing–
he tried to warn us–
that we were falling and not flying.

Our fears lulled by PR firms 
and impossibly cheap plastic baubles.
“Please put your seat and tray into the full and upright positions.” 
Falling not flying.
Dangerous air today.
Red flag warning,
no burns,
red-eyes
impossible heat.

Dangerous air today. 
Can’t see the mountains–
might as well live in Kansas–
a long nothing.
Without mountains
how can one tell which way is north?
The cardinal directions
are all mashed potatoes–
featureless like a cartoon heaven–
a special kind of hell.

Dangerous air today.
People breath it in
and hate–
as if
that will clear the skies.

Jacob Richards is a writer, editor, activist, and wilderness guide in Western Colorado.

ELEGY FOR THE LUNG

by Robert Américo Esnard

The sun streaks a dull rust 

over the Hudson, 

the dusty air shimmers metallic,

and I am overcome 

with awareness of my own blood.

 

I can feel it, not rushing, but crawling,

a slow advance. 

My whole body a fleshy host.

Incredible, 

the small power of a protein 

 

to sustain a whole body: 

to capture, 

to carry, to climb, to clear. 

We, less thankless 

more heedless. I rarely consider:

 

the shape of a fluid forms 

its function.

A tiny shift is enough to poison 

a whole body: 

to capture contagion, to carry 

 

contaminants through the blood. 

A breath of rust 

climbing as the branches burn,

a body overcome,

making a slow advance to dust.

Robert Américo Esnard was born and raised in the Bronx, NY. He studied Linguistics and Cognitive Science at Dartmouth College. His work has been published by or is forthcoming in Alternating Current Press, Alternative Field, Cutbank, Glass, Lunch Ticket, New York Quarterly, and several anthologies. He is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize-nominated poet.

THE SACKING OF DELHI, 2021

by Joy Dehlavi

Photo by Joy Dehlavi while delivering baked goods to an oxygen camp with medical personnel and Sikh volunteers.

Timur-lane rides again,

to gut the golden bird;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word.

With just a smidgeon

of his novel potion;

The bandit can bludgeon

an entire nation. 

Bringing no horsemen

with bow and scimitar;

He leaves hordes behind

in Samarkand durbar.

Of defending Delhi,

they have lost all clues;

India’s overlords

charading as world gurus. 

In cold corrupt hearts,

no patriotism stirred;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

The billboards are huge,

but the vision small;

The news is fake

and economy in free fall.

Bumbling babus

and malicious middlemen;

Let native immunity wane

and bastions broken. 

Timur plots unguarded

burg’s checkmate;

He gently lets loose

the taj plague outbreak. 

Setting sight on crowds,

the virus veered;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Lethal contagion wafts

in balmy breeze;

Hard to hide,

from its viperous squeeze. 

Smiting shanty and manor,

mandir and masjid;

Slithering softly with breath,

a malady horrid. 

Froth-corrupted lungs

straining for breath;

Denied relief or air,

no dignity in death. 

Stranded on sidewalks,

calling to be cured;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Smoke chokes the city,

from roaring fires;

Trees turn to timber,

feeding endless pyres. 

Remorseless racketeers

cashing in on misery;

Floating carrion speak

of untold butchery. 

Widow women, orphan kids,

aged losing help;

The tormented hear

forsaken pariah's yelp.

Isolation and penury,

pestilence delivered;

Dilli my jaan,

will have the last word. 

Donning face shields 

and suits of plastic armor;

An army arrives

to battle the vile vapor. 

Feeding, sanitizing,

testing and vaccinating;

All castes come together,

in fraught fighting. 

Selfless service ingrained

in their blood;

Steely sardars serve

oxygen to the cursed. 

In succoring the sick,

they dread no hazard;

Dilli meri jaan

will have the last word. 

Ceding sleep and lull,

medicos risk their all;

Even chiefs fall

to the jagged green ball. 

"No one sleeps"

tending the breath machine;

"I will win," says

the nurse to spike protein. 

Hours sweltering,

in stifling protective gear;

They keep on healing,

feeling no fear. 

Dehliwallahs rise up,

audaciously undeterred;

Dilli meri jaan,

will have the last word. 

Soulless charlatans

getting masses misled;

Crack crack crackles

the sky over their head. 

Profiteering politicians

filled with conceit;

Thud thud trembles

the ground under their feet. 

Timur finally falls,

to the common cold;

Heart of Bharat beats,

beautiful and bold. 

With head held high,

it moves forward;

Dilli meri jaan

will always have the last word. 

Author's Note: Dilli is another name for the city of Delhi. "My jaan" means "my life" in Urdu and Hindi. Usually used to address a lover. "Meri" is Hindi for "my". As the poem takes a turn and starts describing positive things that are happening around me, I change to "Dilli meri jaan" as a more intimate way of refering to the city I grew up in. There was a tourism jingle " Dilli meri jaan" used to promote the city to foreigners about 30 years ago. Most people in Delhi or Dehli still use this expression to express their love for the city.

Glossary:

·      Babu - A mid to low level government functionary or clerk (Hindi)

·      Bharat - Another name for India (Hindi)

·      Burg - Medieval fortress or walled city

·      Caste - Stratification system in Indian society with some history of difficulty in working together.

·      Dehliwallah - One who belongs to Dehli/Delhi (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Durbar - Royal court (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Mandir - Place of worship for Hindus (Hindi)

·      Masjid - Place of worship for Muslims (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Native immunity - Scientific term for innate resistance to infections

·      Sardar - Members of the Sikh community known for their courage and charity (Hindi/Punjabi)

·      Taj - Crown or Corona (Hindi/Urdu)

 

References explained:

·      “Crack crack crackles the sky over their head” and “Thud thud trembles the ground under their feet” —Adapted from Urdu poem “Hum dekhenge” by Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Frequently used as protest anthem against government policies.

·      “Froth-corrupted lungs” — From “Dulce Et Decorum Est “ by Wilfred Owen. Author described effects of poison gas on unmasked soldiers during The Great War.

·      “No one sleeps” and “I will win”— Lyrics translated to English from “Nessun Dorma,” the aria from Puccini’s Turandot popular in Europe as a rallying cry to encourage frontline healthcare workers during the first coronavirus wave in spring of 2020.

·      “With head held high” — Adapted from Bengali poem “ Chitto Jetha Bhayshunyo” by Indian Nobel Laureate poet Rabindranath Tagore. He wrote this as his vision of new and awakened India.

·      Golden bird (Sone ki Chidiya in Hindi) — Refers to the wealthy land of India in medieval times that made it a target for many plunderers from Central Asia.

·      Timur or Timur-lane — Turco-Mongol conqueror who mercilessly sacked ineptly defended Delhi in December of 1398. Infamous for indiscriminate massacre of a large number of city residents.

Joy Dehlavi wrote “The Sacking of Delhi, 2021” drawing from his experiences during the coronavirus spike lockdown that he spent in Delhi, India. Born in India, he now lives in the USA.

PREAMBLE TO DEATH

by Monica Korde

WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, ARE DYING.

Here with only hours to spare, air 

leaving the lungs, families rush 

from hospital to hospital 

begging for a breath, for a bed 

while opulent hotel rooms 

offer a hundred covid beds 

for members of justice.

Here votes matter, deaths don’t. 

Politicians ride chariots, strut 

through reckless rallies and 

use words liberally:

“Nothing to panic. It’s all imaginary.”

“No need for masks, why worry?”

“After all, everyone has to die eventually”.

Here the gravedigger works 24-hour shifts, 

his gloves left behind to 

avoid the spade from slipping. 

It is Ramzan but he must have water before 

he goes on- turning the earth, getting the body

removing it from the makeshift ambulance 

burying it faster than he can count. 

The priest works equally—

he prays for a hundred pyres, stokes the fires, and 

this pandemic pandit of sorts walks round-the-clock 

through this burning mess

roll calling names as the flames get warm enough. 

Here the departed lie outside 

community-built crematoriums. 

No marigold, no silk, no sandalwood 

to adorn the tired bodies. 

Carefully wrapped in outrage, in anguish

they find kinship and unity

these souls on stand-by

waiting for an undignified exit. 

 

ENDLESSLY EMERGING IN BODY BAGS ON GURNEYS—ONE, TWO, THREE DEATHS PER MINUTE, OVER FOUR THOUSAND IN 24 HOURS—ON THIS DAY OF MAY 2021, WE MOURN IN THE MAKING OF THIS REPUBLIC AND QUESTION HEREBY HOW TO ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION. 

Monica Korde, is a poet from India, currently living in Belmont, California. Along with writing poems, she reads at several virtual poetry readings hosted in the Bay area and regularly co-hosts an online poetry open mic. Her poetry has appeared online on the website of San Francisco Public Library, on YouTube published by local poetry open mics, and in anthologies. 

 

A PANDEMIC PRAYER

by Roderick Deacey

Don’t let me die a COVID death

pinned and tied by wires and tubes,

felled by fear and pain,

enduring dark visions

from potions that numb and confuse,

unable to touch the infinite,

losing the inevitable tussle for breath.

Instead, let me choose a worm’s death,

gently stilling movement

in the warm black soil.

Feeling the earth shiver and move

as it wraps me in its vast body

and cradles me

in its perpetual swing around the sun.

Or let me walk into the ancient forest

and sense the slow sap of centuries

sliding through the rough bark I lean against.

Let me mark the deep rhythm of the wood

as I feel myself slowly sink

into the tree’s heart,

to rest serene among leafy limbs.

Best of all, let me die a bird’s death,

swooping and swirling

high in a star-pricked sky—

not even aware

of tumbling flesh and feathers falling

as I joyously fly on

toward that brilliant rainbow slash of dawn.

Roderick Deacey is a performing poet in the DC area, based in Frederick, MD. In normal, non-viral times, he regularly performs with his drummer/percussionist and bass-player, presenting “neo-beat” poems inspired by the Beat Poets’ poetry and jazz forays of the nineteen-fifties. His beat poetry chapbook neo-beatery ballads was published in 2019. Deacey was awarded the 2019 Frederick Arts Council Carl R. Butler Award for Literature. Crossing genres, he won the Gold Award for best lyrics in the 2020 Mid-Atlantic Song Contest held by the Songwriters Association of Washington.

AIR QUALITY INDEX: 519

by Devon Balwit

SEATTLE, WA - SEPTEMBER 12: A man wearing a mask walks along Kerry Park as smoke from wildfires fills the air on September 12, 2020 in Seattle, Washington. According to the National Weather Service, the air quality in Seattle remained at "unhealthy" levels Saturday after a large smoke cloud from wildfires on the West Coast settled over the area. (Photo by Lindsey Wasson/Getty Images via Seattle PI)

Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—
I breathe in. I only cough a little.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.

I breathe in. I only cough a little.
The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.
My usual view is lost to fog.

The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
My usual view is lost to fog.
It’s like London in 1952.

Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
It’s like London in 1952.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.

I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.

I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
So many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.

Too many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.
Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—

When not teaching, Devon Balwit chases chickens in the Pacific Northwest. She has two collections forthcoming: Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press, 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2020]. 

MASK WORK

by Alejandro Escudé

Why Aren’t You Wearing a Mask? by Jen Sorensen at The Nib

T***p “sprays a mask on his face every day for vanity. But an actual mask that would protect other people, that, that, he just can’t do” –Anderson Cooper


Pull yourself up by your mask straps!
I work hard to keep myself and others safe,
but sometimes I too hate to have to reach up
for a mask hung like a hat on a makeshift
mask-rack in my entryway. I feel a strange
sweaty anxiety in needing to “muzzle”
myself, as you call it, and crave the feel
of fresh air on my face, unbridled breath.
But you of all people should understand
the logic of labor, the idea of work, you
who often block “entitlements,” who see
the world simply as divided between
those who can succeed and those who
cannot. I put on my mask of success!
I put on my mask and it is work to do so,
like raising a shovel, like crunching
the numbers, like mowing, like sewing
seeds, like picking stocks. I do my mask-
work because my kids depend on me
surviving and on their grandparents
surviving so that we can continue to work.
And I too am with you, I too put on my
mask and feel its claws dig into my skull.
I too rise in the morning to greet the sun-
disease for yet another day. But I mask.
And I wear my good work on my face.


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

EYES ABOVE THE MASK

by Joan Colby

Postal workers at the Bemus Point NY Post Office behind a new partition, designed to keep customers and staff safe during the coronavirus pandemic. Photo by Jim Wehrfritz for the Post Journal (Jamestown NY).

We eye each other warily
Above our masks
Keeping our social distance.

Is this the one, this guy in the tan jacket,
This woman holding a package in gloved hands,
This older man limping with a cane,
This teenager whose mask keeps slipping?

This one? The super spreader of a virus
Unknown to its carrier, asymptomatic.
The one whose contaminated breath
Floats a particle toward us.
Who can we trust? The employee
At the post office desk behind a plastic shield,
The stockers in the grocery aisle unloading cases
Of gingerale or flavored tea.

We hurry in and out of wherever
People gather, even though they obey
The taped lines—six feet? It’s said the virus
Can ride the airways for hours or days
Or months or years, who knows?

Everything we’re told is uncertain,
Hopeful, bold or despairing.
We hasten away from those
Who might somehow touch us.


Joan Colby’s Selected  Poems received the 2013 FutureCycle Prize, and Ribcage was awarded the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. Her recent books include Carnival from FutureCycle Press, The Seven Heavenly Virtues from Kelsay Books and Her Heartsongs from Presa Press. Her latest book is Joyriding to Nightfall from FutureCycle Press.

TRYING TO SLEEP DURING THE APOCALYPSE

by Lori Desrosiers 

Asthma Society of Ireland

“People with moderate to severe asthma may be at higher risk of getting very sick from COVID-19.  COVID-19 can affect your respiratory tract (nose, throat, lungs), cause an asthma attack, and possibly lead to pneumonia and acute respiratory disease.” —CDC

In histamine driven midnight storm
awakened either by the red cat’s whiskers
or your breath I recall the moments
before my hour’s sleep stumbling upon
a live feed of the northern lights where I
could hear the polar wind its breath

rising and falling the breath of earth
and ice and flow the pulse of sun’s
electric charge. Searching for a good
blank page to place in ink the element
of shift to try to describe how arctic ice’s
flow affects plankton and sea angels and
viruses held for eons in cold embrace.

How does sleep come easy to you my love,
now you are well and this new horror threatens
from beyond our bed? Four years ago, you in
hypothermia and coma after CPR, the nurse
warned me not to hold your hand or touch
your skin so my life force dare not bring you
back just yet, a connection so strong
we could draw the other back from death.

We know little about this plague except
it takes away the very breath, pulls
at the sinews of our imagination.
Panic coursing through my body,
my hand touches your forearm and
immediately my heart rate slows.
You breathe your future, and I sleep.

Lori Desrosiers’ poetry books are The Philosopher’s Daughter (Salmon Poetry 2013), Sometimes I Hear the Clock Speak (Salmon Poetry 2016), and Keeping Planes in the Air (Salmon Poetry 2020). Two chapbooks, Inner Sky and typing with e.e. cummings, are from Glass Lyre Press. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She holds an MFA in Poetry from New England College and teaches in the Lesley University M.F.A. program. She edits Naugatuck River Review, a journal of narrative poetry, and Wordpeace, an online journal dedicated to social justice. She lives and writes in Westfield, Massachusetts.

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.

THE WOMAN CARD

by Skaidrite Stelzer

Too hard to say the exact words,
the exacting words.
How a hand can be placed on a shoulder;
the sudden shudder of his breath in my hair.
Because I don’t know him really,
a stranger,
and I don’t like men creeping up behind me.
Because they can’t see my face,
they may feel they are gentlemen,
they may think me too sensitive,
easy to melt,
quietly.
Easy to melt with my mouth closed,
tongue removed,
unless his in my ear.
Such close whispering meant
only to reassure me
and the chorus arising,
overpowering.
What is the risk?
I remember the man
who followed me home one night
from the laundromat
and I did not mind it.
But another night
he came in accidentally.
My accident, not locking the door.
There is often something more
to the story.
If you want to touch me,
at least look me straight
in the face.

Skaidrite Stelzer lives and writes in Toledo, Ohio.  Growing up as a post-war refugee and displaced person, she feels connected to the world and other stray planets.  Her poetry has been published in Fourth River, Eclipse, Glass, Baltimore Review, and many other literary journals as well as TheNewVerse.News.

TRITINA FOR SYRIA'S CHILDREN

by Jo-Ella Sarich

A man carries the body of a child, after what rescue workers described as a suspected gas attack in the town of Khan Sheikhun. Photograph: Ammar Abdullah/Reuters via The Guardian, April 5, 2017

My daughters’ faces, quivering beneath Heavy
Water, their lips pucker and slide breath
from the inception of the word to the final release of the air.

And I all at once catch a flicker of them in the air,
their lungs grown bone-heavy.
I seize breath, before my own breath

is pressed, mouth-to-mouth to force breath
to form the word in them, air
becomes mercury in the glass and the heavy

air between us too much like one breath or word-clouds across our heavy sky.


Jo-Ella Sarich has practised as a lawyer for a number of years, recently returning to poetry after a long hiatus. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quarterday Review, Cleaver Magazine, Blackmail Press, Barzakh Magazine, Poets Reading the News, The Galway Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, takahē magazine and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017. @jsarich_writer