HOLES

by Christine Sikorski

Federal immigration agents tackled and arrested a Somali American man in Minneapolis on Tuesday and detained him for about two hours for no apparent reason other than his ethnicity… Mubashir declined to share his last name out of fear for his and his family’s safety, but he gave a detailed account of the incident to reporters, who also viewed video that city officials shared recorded on a business’ security camera and a bystander’s mobile phone. Mubashir, who moved to the United States as a small boy and became a naturalized American citizen, said that he stepped onto a sidewalk near 4th Street and Cedar Avenue during his lunch break when two masked men approached him. The Cedar-Riverside neighborhood is the heart of the city’s Somali American community. Sensing trouble, he ducked into a restaurant. They followed him inside, dragged him out and forcibly arrested him. The agents handcuffed Mubashir, took him across 4th Street and pushed him onto his knees in the snow. One put him in a choke hold. —Minneapolis Public Radio, December 12, 2025

After the mayoral forum, a candidate and I remain at the table. 

He apologizes for not being “on” today, for not realizing 

his back had been turned to me. He’s tired. New baby. His first. 

Would you like to see a picture? he asks, showing me his phone, 

the stunning infant. I would lose sleep for him always, he says.

 

My husband kneels on the library floor to better survey 

a shelf of jazz CDs, as a group of preschoolers scuttle around him. 

A small boy approaches, holds out a box of chess pieces, asks

something in Somali. It appears he wants to put the box away 

but doesn’t know where it belongs. A teacher comes to help.

The phlebotomist greets us, speaks to my daughter in a quiet voice, 

assures she is comfortable in the reclining chair. After the blood draw, 

he tells me some people say he should speak more loudly. 

My daughter has been told that all her life, I say, and we talk about 

communicating across cultures, about what signifies humility.

Our US representative leaves a phone message, inviting us to a town hall. 

She wants to hear all of her constituents’ voices. The president calls her

garbage, dreams of throwing her away, along with the candidate, 

the little boy, the phlebotomist. He laughs about shitholes and hellholes— 

his heart, an empty hole.

Christine Sikorski’s work has appeared in Waterstone, Little Patuxent Review, Quartet, One Art, This Was 2020: Minnesotans Write About Pandemics and Social Justice in a Historic, and elsewhere. Her honors include a Minnesota State Arts Board Grant and Academy of American Poets Prizes. She has taught at two universities, the Loft Literary Center, a homeless shelter, a community center, and other venues. She lives with her family in Minneapolis.

THE VOICE OF ONE CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS

by Steven Kent

The Guardian, October 19, 2024

In Missouri, one Christian speaks truth

On behalf of some transgendered youth.

A preacher for parity

Out there's quite a rarity;

Elect this good woman, forsooth!

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collection I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) was published in 2023 by Kelsay Books.

BLADING

by Daniel Romo

Abdullah the Butcher

The politician wasn’t struck in the assassination attempt

and only his ear was grazed, but the trickle of his blood caused

          half the country to cry, Hero!

          and the other half to yell, Staged!

though no one can deny 

octogenarians are more brittle bones 

than bulletproof, and 

all’s fair in love and reward.

 

There are those who claim we never landed on the Moon 

and those who maintain the Earth is flat,

yet that doesn’t change the fact that 

           Abdullah the Butcher 

secretly sliced his forehead with a razorblade during matches 

in the days when wrestling was supposed to be 

                     considered real,

and his blood poured down onto his opponents 

like a christening for non-believers in the crowd 

at a baptism rooted in amusement      

and self-mutilation.

 

My dad didn’t initially recognize me as I visited

him and my mom this weekend

and blamed it on his cataracts.

And while that may be the cause,

I clearly see what’s to come 

for us all. 

 

When a platform is based upon pretending 

and failure to acknowledge that it’s not true sport 

but entertainment,

who could blame the public’s skepticism 

when a former president is clipped by a sniper 

and seconds later raises his fist to Heaven

as if not giving praise, but 

milking the most out of 

                                life’s misses?

 

I’m sure the candidate will still be able to hear 

from his right ear 

but never listen.

 

I’m sure my dad will continue to deny

the natural by-products of his age

 

because lies build like

scar tissue piled up upon skin,

like fresh dirt piled upon 

graves. 

Daniel Romo is half curve ball, half prose poem, half bodega. Proof at danieljromo.com.

THE POLITICS OF FAITH AND CULTURE

by Cecil Morris

At the corner of faith and culture in Southern Washington,

the Christian conservative congressional candidate 

says that she will bring Scripture-filled and Spirit-infused Prayers 

for the Battlefield to the halls of congress to fight for faith, 

to make us kneel in the benevolent and delighted light of Christ.

She says that she is MomStrong and homeschool smart, 

the author of a bunch of books celebrating bibles

and moms. She says that she puts babies first, that they are her first

and most important constituents, both gift and purpose.

She says that she stands for gun rights and ammo. She says

that she is unapologetic, which means, I suppose,

that she does not ask for or need forgiveness, does not know

contrition. She says that there are just two genders, that God

created them in his image male and female, and I think

that she believes in a hermaphroditic deity,

a god of two genders at once, that she worships a god

with cock and cunt. Or maybe her god is gender fluid,

a male today, a female tomorrow, a god who goes back

and forth as it pleases or as it is necessary

like His perfected creations the Lythrypnus dalli

or Crepidula fornicata or Cornu aspersum.

Or maybe her conception of god is genderless,

more idea or ideal than body—disembodied

and beyond gender concerns. Is creation wrong

or is God or is this Christian candidate mistaken

in her understanding of what God meant or means?

I don’t know. But here, amid the multiple wonders

of this world, amid the incredible diversity

of this life, would God have given us just two genders,

a paltry coin-flip two, an either-or, a binary choice,

a mere dichotomy, a language of only two words

while all around us hums such a rich abundance.

I do not know the mind of God (if such a thing exists),

but I do know for certain sure that I do not want

this person to have the power to govern over me.

Author's Note: The italized portions of lines 3-4 and 13-14 come from (first) Heidi St. John’s website promoting her books, podcasts, and ministry and (second) from her campaign ad aired on KGW Portland on July 22, 2022.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, divides his time between Oregon and California.  He has poems in or forthcoming from 3Elements, Ekphrastic Review, English Journal, Evening Street Review, Hiram Review, Hole in the Head Review, The New Verse News, Scapegoat, Talking River Review, and other literary magazines.

GEORGE FROM POLAND

by Larry Levy

‘There’s more to me than being a denier of the Holocaust,’ says GOP nominee (pictured above) for Congress.” —Chicago Tribune: Daily Southtown, July 27, 2018

When they came, herding parents
brothers, sisters, playmates,
elders, cousins, infants,
into a few narrow streets,

we obeyed. Choice was the first
privilege to disappear. Used to edicts,
Papa shared stale bread, an old cursed
image of ourselves. Then they sicced

the dogs on us, huddled in fears
of night trains, the work farms.
Papa reassured: Has anyone died from stars,
from numbers burned on arms?

Somehow I outlasted cholera,
beatings, daily selections. I alone
came to Detroit, America,
removed the tattoo. Moved on.

One morning in a cafe
I heard neighbors: The ovens were a lie.
No Anne Frank or six million, they say.
Papa’s words return: You must survive.

People will not believe.
You must not give in, must try.
Tell them. Roll up your sleeve.

Oh Father, of what then did we die?

Larry Levy's poems have appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, The South Carolina Review, Driftwood Review, Third Wednesday, Tenemos, Postcard Poems, and other literary paper and on-line publications. His poetry collections include I Would Stay Forever (Mayapple Press), All the Dead are Holy (Atmosphere Press), and What Outlives Us (Atmosphere Press). For several years he judged Third Wednesday's annual poetry contest. He and his wife live in Midland, MI where they direct plays and conduct workshops on acting and writing for the Midland Center for the Arts.

HIGHLY FUNGIBLE

by Maryanne Hannan

“Mr. Trump’s popularity — his support in some polls is double that of his closest competitors — is built on his unfettered style, rather than on his positions, which have proved highly fungible.” —Trip Gabriel, NY Times, Aug. 5, 2015. Image Source: Angie's Diary

Maryanne Hannan has published poetry in Rattle, Light Quarterly, WomenArts Quarterly, and Minnesota Review. A former Latin teacher, she lives in upstate New York.

AT THE LEADING CANDIDATE'S RALLY

by Steve Abbott

The answer, of course, is simple:
They are not like Us, Our heritage
and faith and flag. Not like Us, who
understand the real danger, the loss
of rightful place, above Them with
their odd odors and leather skins,
over there. And now here, among Us,
pretending They are like Us. Once
They feared Our strength, but now
We hesitate to do what must be done.
We need to do something now, to
show Them who’s in charge. We’ll
do to Them what We know They’ll do
to Us. No one knows what ’s going on.
We can’t live like this. They weave
dark webs in lives full of secrets,
hide Their evil in unfamiliar accents.
There are traitors among Us who are
helping Them, Those who want
to take what we have. The beards
of Their sons conceal explosive wire.
They’re hiding something in Their
worn suitcases, in blankets Their kids
carry. They’re stealing Your jobs,
Your kid’s future. They are waiting
for Their chance. Soon They’ll destroy
everything. Your leaders have betrayed
You, locking Your dreams in the banks
of Their friends. I’m saying what You’re
thinking, and We’re not afraid to act.
We have the weapons we need.
We can stop Them. We can be great
again. We know what We have to do.


Steve Abbott’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Connecticut Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Rattle, Evening Street Review, Plainsongs, Pudding, Wind, and Big Scream, among other journals. He edited the anthologies Cap City Poets (Pudding House, 2008) and Everything Stops and Listens (Ohio Poetry Association, 2013), and he edits Ohio Poetry Association’s annual member journal Common Threads. Night Ballet Press will publish his third chapbook The Incoherent Pull of Want later this year.  A collection of ekphrastic poems titled When the Image Speaks is seeking a publisher. He is a founder and co-coordinator of The Poetry Forum, one of the Midwest’s longest-running weekly poetry series in Columbus, where he lives with his wife Melanie Boyd.

SONG TO MYSELF

by Gil Hoy




Where is the iron
Brahmin, traitor
to his class,

Man of
The people---

You can’t cajole
You can’t frighten
You can’t buy?

With bones
stronger than
All of them
on the stage,

Please stop
the rain from
falling down.

It's time to rise up,
It's time to rise
up.  It's time
to rise up!

Grit those big
teeth, hold
assassins’ bullets
in your chest,

Until you are
drowned out by
the faithful sea.

Listen to
the bells ring,
Listen to
the robin sing,

Until the hail
washes your soul,
away.


Gil Hoy is a Boston trial lawyer and writer. He studied poetry at Boston University, while receiving a BA in Philosophy and Political Science. Gil received an MA in Government from Georgetown University and a JD from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. His writing has appeared most recently in The Montucky Review, The Potomac, The New Verse News, The Boston Globe and The Dallas Morning News.

DECISION

by William Aarnes 

Abdel-Majed Abdel Bary via Daily Mail; Donald Trump via DonkeyHotey

                                                . . . where shall you listen
                when all is become billboards, when, all, even silence, is spray-gunned?
                                                --Charles Olson, “I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You”


Tonight, hunched
over his iPad,
your son will decide
whether to devote his life
to commerce
or killing—

                   already dreading  
some corporate career  
in throwaway crap,

already fancying
the euphoria
of wielding a bullpup.

He replays the video
of a capitalist
endorsing himself
by espousing bigoted blather.

He replays the video
of a jihadist
ambling into view
after executing sunbathers.


William Aarnes had recent work in Main Street Rag, Shark Reef, Empty Sink, and The New Verse News.

WALKER MANIA

by David Southward

Image source: DonkeyHotey

Amazing, what a guy like me
can do for voters who can’t see
what’s good for them. I’ve hatched a plan
to make their state a wonderland!

I broke the unions, stripped their rights—
and though it sparked some ugly fights,      
the squawking’s dwindled to a peep
and labor now comes oh-so-cheap.

I turned the federal money down
that would’ve linked up town to town
with light rail. Jobs were lost, but hey,
it kept the socialists away.

Natural gas? Now that I’d tap.
It’s ours if we just frack the crap
out of Wisconsin’s woods (though first
her residents must be coerced).

The jobs report still sucks, the budget
can’t be balanced. Hell, let’s fudge it:
keep the taxes low by raping
schools, the poor, and park landscaping.

I passed a law that welfare queens
must view their fetuses on screens
before aborting. God will care
for those unwanted babes, I swear.

With cuts in funding, it’s a breeze
to gut state universities.
They nurture liberals, stir up minds
and threaten us with picket lines.

I’m loved by all the billionaires,
which may explain why no one dares
to question me.  If someone tries,
I’ll stare him down with my dead eyes.

If I could gain complete control,
I’d sell the public sector whole
to the highest-bidding financier—
and run it like an overseer.

It seems to me we’ve turned a page:
I’ve ushered in a bold new age
in which a scoundrel goes scot free.
An age of proud cupidity.


David Southward teaches literature in the Honors College at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His poems have appeared in The New Verse News, The Lyric, and Voices on the Wind.

SUCCESSOR S/ELECTION

by Karen Neuberg

Image source: LevittownNow

We are unsure who to s/elect
and take a peek under. This leads
to new understanding and at least one
skinned knee. How easily the world rocks
back and forth between mystery
and revelation. Vision or revulsion
stack in individual ways resulting   
in no consensus. Someone suggests
a water test. Another fire. No one cares
to make the attempt. We continue
leaderless but full of direction until a previously-
unknown candidate emerges from behind a boulder
and behaves as though s/he knows both
what we do and what we don’t.


Karen Neuberg lives in Brooklyn, NY. Her chapbook, Detailed Still, was published by Poets Wear Prada. She has previously published at The New Verse News.

THE CANDIDATE MAKES A PUBLIC STATEMENT ON A PRIVATE MATTER, HIS WIFE AT HIS SIDE

by Michael Cantor





There’s something in the rules, I guess, to make
them brave the scene, dead pale, beside the jerk,
because they all endure it; none will shirk
the role, not one has said, Give me a break,
you asshole, can’t you tell how much I ache –
you’re on your own  – instead, she takes her place
and stands there, shaking,  life drained from her face
as hubby asks the world for time and space.  

There is no way, José, I am forewarned,
you’d ever see me shame myself like that.

I change the channel, give her knee a pat, 

suppress a little joke on women scorned.

I'd like to think she’d stand by me, but still, 

I’ve never run for office, never will.


Michael Cantor’s full-length collection, Life in the Second Circle (Able Muse Press, 2012), was a finalist for the 2013 Massachusetts Book Award for Poetry. A chapbook, The Performer, was published in 2007; and his work has appeared in The Dark Horse, Measure, New Verse News, Raintown Review, SCR, Chimaera, The Flea, and numerous other journals and anthologies.  He was also a finalist for the Nemerov (twice), Richard Wilbur and Robert Penn Warren poetry competitions; and has won the New England Poetry Club Gretchen Warren and Erika Mumford prizes.  A native New Yorker, he has lived and worked in Japan, Latin America and Europe, and presently resides on Plum Island, north of Boston on the Massachusetts coast.