TABOO

by L. Roger Owens

In the evening of the day that negotiations

over the Strait of Hormuz threaten again to collapse

and Russian missiles kill seventeen souls

in Kyiv—we saw seven bodies still lying there, one

reporter says—the same day a progressive democrat

declares victory in a senate primary in Michigan,

the family of my daughter’s boyfriend joins us

for a game night. We’ve made brownies. They bring cookies,

peanut butter ones. Ice cream chills in the freezer.

The whole gang comes: mother, father, sister and her boyfriend

(who went to high school with my boys), younger cousin,

and the boyfriend himself, it goes without saying.

We sit in a circle in the family room like a shape poem,

our names prosodic when spoken,

the consonance of the v’s and m’s, hard g’s beat--

boxing; two r’s waltz together sweetly.

The game is one in which you prompt your teammates

to guess a word, but there are several you can’t say.

My word is banana, and five more are forbidden me:

fruit, peel, yellow, split, and bread. I make

banana bread whenever a family member returns home,

from college, say, or from a trip away

(something dead citizens of Kyiv will never do again).

“Welcome Home Banana Bread,” we’ve named it

in the family cookbook, and three bananas

are browning in the kitchen now, waiting to be smashed

into pancake batter. My teammates know none of this.

I yearn to say peel yellow fruit, and time runs out.

I alone decline crumbed cookie between my brownie

and ice cream, and while we spoon dessert

into our mouths, no one dares to speak

of the widening fiasco in the Middle East or allude

to human remains strewn among the streets of that great city,

its Golden Gate immortalized by Mussorgsky.

No one says, Thank God the centrist lost.

But you don’t mention these things, of course you don’t,

not when your families are gaming together for the first time—

you don’t. More ice cream, anyone?

 

L. Roger Owens teaches spirituality, ministry, and creative writing at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. He is an MFA student at Ashland University.

ON FIRSTS IN (AND OF) A SERIES

by Jen Schneider

many viewed a sit-down with the master

as a sign they had arrived, when the truth

seeker knew it was she that would steer 

the conversation

to destinations named 

truth—dissimilar

all the same—amidst 

streetcars of desire 

and paths of

many 

firsts

breaks

airwaves

all in a series of views 

and viewers—direct

questions, big scores,

time (and timely) covers

gets and galas

days and nights

anchors and achings

ports and payscales

spoofs and spares

drivers and dares

trees and trials

fears and fashions

trials and televisions

presidents and precedents

interns and internments

ladders and legacies

truth, 

done right

always (and all)

knowing

that arrivals 

are relative and truths 

measured—

in a series

of stand-ups

and sit-downs

up down

across town

paths

well sown

it’s not goodbye

it’s not goodnight

it’s not farewell

it’s 20-20 vision,

mountains climbed,

broadcasts traversed

her way

an unmeasurable

and irreplaceable

first 

a fabulous

lady

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

A THURSDAY EVENING IN JULY

by Marc Swan

Two couples, one deck, no masks,
seated at separate tables
six feet apart drinking chilled white wine,
eating snacks from separate trays—
crackers, bleu cheese, olives, carrots, celery.
Conversation starts with tomato plants—
kind, size, growing patterns, anticipation
of the fruit called by some a vegetable
that will soon burst through on this deck.
Dusk settles, conversation shifts to the virus—
what we know, what we believe, what
we want the future to hold for us, for our
families. Subject moves on to politics—
a litany of those things we can’t control,
think about, worry about, and here we are
once again saying it out loud. Hopeful
on one level, pessimistic on another.
The take down of a society, principles
and values, by one man and his motley crew
in less than four years. Good thoughts
on fruit ripening replaced by anger, confusion,
hopelessness. Thunder jolts the air, rain
falls in heavy pelts against the umbrellas.
We’re invited inside, not sure the best plan,
but here we are socially distanced, no masks,
a fresh glass of white wine in hand,
conversation shifts to what we can control
or at least think we can.

Marc Swan’s latest collection all it would take was published in May 2020. Poems forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Stony Thursday Book, Channel Magazine, among others. He lives in coastal Maine 

with his wife Dd.

SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED

A Collection of Shorts on Close Confidants and Secrets Shared in Public Spaces Now Shuttered as Civil Liberties and Lives Lived in Previously Precarious Situations Ripe with Bitter Herbs that Burn Suddenly Collapse in Ruin. Coffee Shops Close. Close Confidants Cancel. Friend. Help. 

by Jen Schneider

Abortion rights advocates asked the Supreme Court on Saturday night to overturn part of the Texas governor’s sweeping ban on abortions during the coronavirus pandemic—the first of similar restrictions to reach the high court. Texas and several Republican-led states that have long led the legal battle to restrict abortion have sought to cut off access as the health crisis escalated in recent weeks, contending the procedure would drain medical resources. —Politico, April 11, 2020. Graphic: a frame from the comic strip “What We Do In a Crisis” by JB Brager at The Nib.

Three weeks late…

Can you talk? It’s urgent. 

Sure, let’s meet at 2. The usual spot.

Thank you, friend.

Secrets shared around tiny, cluttered wood tables. Laden with initials

etched as markers of time and trust, steaming mugs of cocoa—decaf, 

of course,—circular plates of rectangular toast, and square pats of butter. 

Nearby, glass cases protect cinnamon glazed pastries, petit-fours in pale

pinks, greens, and blues, and everything bagels with smears of chive

and onion cream cheese. Origami folded napkins stacked high. Ready.

All perfectly posed and poised for patrons, confidants, and shared secrets.

Public spaces 

pull necessary truths 

outward in shared spaces 

built of security and safety.

Steam soaked air shields salt-soaked tears and paves a path for pure 

talk. Honest voices pour over real options. Plans. Denim clad legs locked 

to silence shaking knees. Brown eyes close quickly as pent up breath 

releases pressing Truth: I need help. Now. A weekend away, one meant 

to heal wounds and smooth scars, turned soft tissue into hard calluses. 

Weak spots and weaknesses for lost laughter and sentimental talk, yield 

decisions with consequences. My regular clock stopped ticking. New life beats.

Now I know. I am in trouble. With bills already unpaid and tempers

that flare daily, I need help. A life in fear of daily taunts, weekly affronts,

and constant slights is a life mine own but not one I choose for the life 

that brews within when the capacity without is full.

As words whimper and fade, secret codes speak clearly. Pointer finger 

taps twice for Yes. Ring finger taps once for No.

Code conveyed on coffee-stained napkins as speakers stream classic rock 

tunes and patron chatter fuels and fires blankets that shield fresh wounds.

Have you told him? Yes. 

What did he say? No.

Are you sure? Yes.

I’ll go with you. 

Thank you, friend.

Three weeks later...

Can you meet? Please. 

I can’t. Nor can you. 

Are you safe? Can we meet online?

Let’s try. Thank you, friend.

Secrets mouthed over cluttered linoleum tabletop piled high with envelopes 

hosting bills overdue and pot-filled sink backdrops. Dog howls and television 

talk filter through climate-controlled air. Shadows loom and linger in adjacent 

room out of view—beyond reach and touch.

Private spaces 

push necessary truths 

inward in shared spaces 

ripe of insecurity and fear

Fingers fiddle chipped coffee cup—a gift from years prior—as laptop screens 

twitch and glitch. Friendly face emerges in pixelated view. Fingers lock and unlock 

in solitary fashion. Seek fodder, find fear. Newfound fears simmer like the skinned potatoes that drop, then boil, on the electric stove. Naked. Alone. Words mouthed 

in hushed whispers. When words endanger, secret codes speak clearly. 

Right eye blinks twice for Yes. Once for No. 

Procedures deemed no longer urgent as domains of urgency morph 

into spheres set for others to determine. Appointments stalled then paused.

Now ceased. Fears of drained medical resources drain safety nets—and sanity. 

Office shuttered. Governor said No.

Wait. What? Say that again. I can’t hear you.

Drained safety. Drained sanity. Don’t know what else to do.

Messages flick across digital screens. Internet connections also unstable. 

Now lost. Faces freeze. Blink. Blip. Disappear. Shadows from rooms 

adjacent loom larger. Closer. Close. Here. 

Three o’clock. Today.

As thoughts and lives beat on—consumed with an unplanned and uncertain 

future—the usual turns extraordinary and days marked by patterns etched 

in previously fine-turned moves and moods—turn unpredictable, close 

confidants and coffee shop camaraderie turn essential though forbidden.

Civil liberties in question. 

Threads fray as ropes tighten. 

Throats, Bellies, Hearts ache. Help.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Recent work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, Bat City Review, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals. 

A PANTOUM MORASS OF SOCIAL MORES

by Joe Amaral 

“He’s winning this. His critics are losing. We’re better for it.” —Tim Kawakami, The (San Jose) Mercury News, September 7, 2016. KHARTOON! by Khalid.

                                                for Colin Kaepernick


They sack their own hypocritical souls,
judging a biracial man sitting down between
Gatorade coolers, bench warmer, while
standing in safe zones chanting anthems.

Character assassinating a person-
hostile when their comfortable tedium
is knelt upon during an incomplete poem,
overheated, entwined in symbolic confliction.

Dislodged from routine surroundings, habits
of public conformity become glare and troll;
despite loafing when the flag waves on private
TV: bloviating from couches about abstract duty.

In my Catholic days I swung suffocating incense
before hearing the priest who married my parents
molested little boys. We spurned the cross in peace.
Pleas from true patriots are treated with violence.

Some only meme, righteous as sacramental fire
while buying foreign cars, clothes and smartphones
made by slave labor, then pout: THANKS OBAMA!
Colin audibles brave; to Hail Mary the fallow loam

of this country, as American as freedom can be, calling
to the knee-jerks and neutrals, even to the haters,
for a healing conversation amongst culpable toxicity—
warming a bench for enemies to connect, sit,
and see.

Joe Amaral likes to spelunk around the California central coast as a paramedic and stay-at-home dad. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 3Elements Review, Arcadia Magazine, Crow Hollow 19, Writers of the Portuguese Diaspora, Zingara Poet and other awesome places. Joe won the 2014 Ingrid Reti Literary Award. He also hiked Mount Kilimanjaro. It was epic.

THE MAN NEXT DOOR

by David Chorlton

Image source: still from The End of Violence by Wim Wenders

The neighbor who wants to know everything
has a way of asking, even though
it’s none of his business. But he seems harmless
so you tell him where you’re going, why
the next house along has been empty for a week,
and put it down to friendly conversation.
You’re aware that he’s watching

you leave and come home, not that it matters
any more than being recorded
wherever you go, by a camera that sees
each withdrawal and deposit, by one
placed in the stairway where you work
and one above the swing
in the playground at the park.
Why should you care?
If you’ve done nothing wrong
there’s no need to worry.
It’s all to keep you safe,

even if safety is a state of mind
when the camera doesn’t stop
bad things from happening
but just records them when they do.
Where can you go to snuggle in peace,

let alone have a discreet affair?
How wrong is wrong enough for consequences?
The cameras never sleep. Do you? Do you know
who the four thousand in Lower Manhattan
are focused on? You get facial recognition
thrown in for no charge.
How far apart are your eyes?
How broad is your nose?
Who does the measuring?
If you need to feel secure

install your own system
with a dummy for only fifteen bucks
positioned to intimidate.
If you’ve done nothing wrong
there’s no need to worry.

China installed ten million cameras in a single year.
London has one for every thirty-two people.
Chicago has ten thousand recording
the income gap between the rich and the poor.
These cameras announce a place is safe for investment,
a nice place to shop
and buy more than you need.
Even if someone is watching, keeping count,

nobody will stop you
before you spend too much
and when the man next door asks
how much your purchase cost
you can never be sure whether he knows already.

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978, and still sees his surroundings with an outsider's eye. This helps his writing projects, which include a new poetry collection,"The Devil's Sonata," from FutureCycle Press.