SERMON

by Daniel Romo

Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren;
And Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram.
—Matthew 1:2-3

The egg begat 
the chicken and 
the farmer begat 
overalls and
the middleman begat 
the supermarket.
 
The coffee begat 
the customer and 
the bean begat 
the roast and 
the desire begat 
the brand.
 
The strawberry begat 
the pickers and 
brown hands begat 
ICE and 
Native Americans begat 
the land.
 
MAGA begat 
the bullies and
an outdated amendment begat 
the gun and
the school shooter begat 
the bodies.
 
The Bible begat 
the commandments and 
scripture begat 
cherry-picking and
nationalism begat 
hypocrisy.
 
Adam begat 
Eve and 
the rib begat 
the barbecue
and the flames begat 
the fire.
 
Injustice begat 
the boycott and 
hope begat
light and 
the day begat 
the struggle.

Daniel Romo's latest book is Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets.

FREE RANGE BIRD

by Indran Amirthanayagam

               for J

Stumbling is generalized from

the top down the line, the pass

to the prince but not his acolytes,

and I in turn taking my name off

the poem that calls for accounting,

consistency, respect for all

the people all the time. Living

in fear of bureaucratic sanction is

the natural state of the apparatchik,

hiding behind internal assessments,

frank reviews protected from

the public eye. But the poet

feigns innocence and writes

as if free speech were the only

principle, not playing scales

the conductor directs. Into these

coordinates, orchestra pit

the editor arrives, notices

the bureacrat's vibrating,

even squirming violin,

the post-midnight fear

of exposure, his attempt

to hold the presses—the editor

the only hero left standing,

taking a firm stance,

dropping the poem from

tweet and website,

and moving on

to the next submission,

the next poem written

without shackles,

that challenges

the moderate, real

politik, that gets

the leader to draw

a clear line in the sand

before the desert wind

picks up and wipes it away

like the usual human construct,

built in a mess, two steps

forward, one back, chicken

clucking still in the coop

smelling free wind in the yard,

the fence beyond out of sight.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, he recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

DID YOU SEE GROUNDHOG DAY THE OTHER NIGHT?

by DeWitt Clinton

Too many days identical to identical days though
Identical days are far better than having no identical
Days left, as in that was the last identical day we spent
But then, you’ll be coming along soon I suspect, just
As the rest of us don’t really have a lifetime left though
Everyone is saying we’ll get over this, through this, we’ll
Make it, just take big deep breaths, eat Brussel sprouts,
Ease up on the whites and reds or for our friend up the
Road, the foreign sounding frothy drink he ends each day
With but really, it’s only not so bad if someone you know
Doesn’t call or send a text or drop in on a video check
As the bad boy virus is going to take way too many of us
Even if we keep a positive glow about all that’s happened
So far, and the reports of available masks made across
The oceans, the make-shift ventilators, the gloves that
Seem to tear even as we put them on, perhaps it’ll just
Be that unmasked ungloved shopper eager to stock up
On a basket of groceries, Charmin, Bounty, Clorox wipes,
Or just about anything that might convince us we’re clean,
We’re not sick, we don’t have a dry cough just a cough
Now and then, and our temp is about the same as it’s
Always been, and the chest occasionally feels all wound
Up but it’s probably just something we ate that gives
Us such a burn that would put any of us into a panic
Over is this it, is this what we’re trying to dodge, is this
Tasty tiny bat going to take us all out, like this, right now?
Well, yes, as the bad bug seems to constantly evolve
Into something we can’t even begin to imagine, though
Whatever it is, we’re just never going to know exactly
How to take the bugger out, just like granny did years
Ago when she twirled that chicken around and around
Then placed the goofy neck out nice and straight so
No one would have to wonder, ever again, what some
Of us, but not all of us, might be salivating again as
By sundown, the table is set, parts are frying, and
We just hope everybody we knew yesterday will
Be knocking on the door, hoping there’s still a chance
That tomorrow will be another chance for another
Identical day that will help us to get through what
Some of us actually look forward to, something identical.

DeWitt Clinton is Professor Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in Shorewood. Recent poems of his have appeared in Lowestoft Chronicle, The New Reader Review, The Bezine, The Poet by Day, Verse-Virtual, Poetry Hall, Muddy River Poetry Review, Across the Margin, and Art + Literature Lab. He has two poetry collections from New Rivers Press, a recent collection of poems At the End of the War from Kelsay Books, and a collection of poetic adaptations of Kenneth Rexroth’s 100 Poems from the Chinese in production from Is A Rose Press.

CLIMATE CHANGE SEEN AS RISK TO FOOD

by Jim Gustafson

Image source: The Verge

Climate change will pose sharp risks to the world’s food supply in coming decades, potentially undermining crop production and driving up prices at a time when the demand for food is expected to soar, scientists have found.  --NY Times, November 1, 2013

There will, or so it seems, come a day
            when warming left-overs for dinner
                         will be only a good memory,

like the one of our visit to grandma and grandpa
            on their farm,  when we played in the straw
                         in the loft of the barn,

ate the white chicken that ran the yard,
            potatoes pulled from patch, cooked  then mashed,
                        and fresh plucked peaches in pie.

Grandma and grandpa have now grown cold
            in the ground next to church down the road.
                        All day their granite stone warms in the sun.

At night it holds the heat, and listens to corn
            cry for drink, beans beg for dew,
                        as restless children in old farm houses

pull blankets from their bodies, wish
            for just a breeze to come cool the night
                        with fresh promise.


Jim Gustafson is an MFA student at the University of Tampa. His most recent book, Driving Home, was published by Aldrich Press in January, 2013. Jim lives in Fort Myers, Florida where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds.