MASS SHOOTING #2

E Pasadena Ave and Industrial Ave, Flint, MI, July 27, 2025

by Ron Riekki

“Dandelions bare art of

endurance”

—Semaj Brown, 

First Poet Laureate of Flint, Michigan,

“Black Dandelion” 

            i

 

4 injured, 1 killed, across from a church surrounded by endless fence and on the other side of the fence    concrete           and on the other side of the church more concrete  with piles of rubble fenced off and empty parking spots overgrown with crushed weeds and church windows you can’t see into and           120 air quality Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups        and a NOTICE WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR VEHICLES OR PERSONAL ITEMS on the wall of the building that’s painted pure black jet black onyx black charcoal black the entire building black    and the white-silver moon in the sky cut in half   in the smog sky           and crickets crickets crickets mixed with distant traffic and  the losing wind            and the wall is black every bit of it black with black wall and black garbage can with a full black plastic bag and a big black bucket near the painted black front door with thick white-silver locks thick locks and a gated door and no one to ask questions to nobody no bodies nothing just crickets and clouds and lights of the church and distant loud-soft traffic and a train warns its arrival somewhere on the horizon green overtaking the white-silver concrete and a telephone wire swings in the wind lazily and someone was killed here right here  a long thin orange construction cone leans against the fence like it’s having a smoke            and the wind and the crickets and there is no one anywhere and you feel the sin of corporate decay and the sick concrete clouds and the desperate crickets

 

 

            ii

 

down the street an absolutely massive sign for LEGACY FUNERAL CHAPEL

 

 

            iii

 

and before leaving

 

a security guard

alone

in a white car

on the other side

 

of a fence

 

and I pull over

and I walk up

to the fence

and he gets out

 

and walks up

 

to the fence

and we talk

through the fence

and he’s in white-

 

silver uniform

 

and he’s white

and it’s a black

neighborhood

and he’s white

 

and I ask him

 

if he knows

about the mass

shooting

and he says,

 

“I can’t speak

 

to any journalists

or lawyers”

and I tell him

I’m not trying

 

to solve a murder.

 

I’m trying to

solve Murder.

I don’t say that.

I think that.

 

I’m trying to

 

understand

why there’s so

much violence.

I say that.

 

I tell him

 

he doesn’t have

to talk about

the murder,

but can just talk

 

about how we

 

lessen the violence,

as a human,

how do we lessen

the violence

 

and he says,

 

“I’m not allowed

to comment”

and he’s robotic

and white and

 

I tell him how

 

when I’ve talked

with white people

in the black neighbor-

hoods where

 

the shootings

 

are taking place,

the white people

are corporate

and tell me

 

they’re corporate

 

and tell me

they can’t speak,

that I need to speak

to the police,

 

and I tell him

 

that the black people

I talk with

talk

because

 

they’re invested

 

in helping their

community

and I ask him

if the white people

 

who are corporate

 

aren’t invested

in black communities

and so that’s why

they have nothing

 

to say

 

and he walks away

silently

and gets in his

white security

 

vehicle

 

and drives away

and he is protecting—

seriously?—

what looks like

 

a thousand white

 

vans

all in rows

in a fenced in

parking lot,

 

all of these

 

white white white

vans, a comical

amount of white

vans

 

that he’s protecting,

 

and he fades away

into the night

and I look at him

fading

 

through the fence

 

that seems to be

everywhere

and how it protects

nothing

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.

UNCOMBABLE

by Melissa Balmain

Locklan Samples, diagnosed with uncombable hair syndrome (UHS), a rare genetic disorder of the hair shaft.

Uncombable hair? Well, of course it’s a thing:

we’ve arrived in uncombable times

with uncombable dangers, umcombable ills,

and uncombable thought paradigms.

 

Nuts with guns are uncombable (so we’ve been told)—

we are doomed to uncombable grief.

Piles of nukes are uncombable; superbugs too,

and decay in the Barrier Reef.

 

Our hatreds? Uncombable. Ditto our loves

of red meat, SUVs, fossil fuel,

and the systems permitting too few of our kids

to be nourished and housed and in school.

 

Yes, it’s all so uncombable: that’s what we’ll hear

as we fall and the rising sea foams—

unless our uncombable powers that be

can agree on some new fucking combs.

Melissa Balmain edits Light, America's longest-running journal of comic poetry. Her newest book of verse is The Witch Demands a Retraction: Fairy Tale Reboots for Adults (Humorist Books). @MelissaBalmain

THE REFUGEE

by Karen Mandell

 

Seedlings are something else entirely.

I’ve tried them year after year, the excitement

of new growth lulling me into forgetfulness:

Most fail miserably. Then I go to the nursery

and buy their baby plants instead, planted in plastic

Cages but at least they’re sturdy, survivable.

Most have small, hopeful flowers already laughing

and practicing their dance moves in the light wind.

Bearing flowers, doesn’t that mean they’ve come of age?

I’m told to pick off the early blooms to make the plant stronger.

I can be tough but I can’t manage that.

This year is different.

Out of two packs of seeds, a dozen nasturtium and cosmos

have come up. A dozen all together. A small victory. 

I’ll wait out the nursery and nurse these seedlings

with their too thin stems, frail, spindly,

roots thin as cobweb strands unable to soak up

the water I’ve poured with too generous a hand.

This morning when I roll up the shades to let in the sun,

a mushroom stands upright it the pot, 

its thin stem strong enough to hold its gill upright.

Gray, with a perfect helmet head, erect posture, a soldier

Standing his ground. I can’t allow it. It speaks of decay,

ruin, dank. The seedlings are impervious and lean into the sun.

I should be like them, happy with their square inch,

no begrudging or fear of encroachment. Instead,

I look for a plastic spoon to dig out, to disembody.

But I don’t go through with it. It’s not me to determine

Who will live and who will die. 

Karen Mandell’s short story “Goddess of Mercy” is forthcoming from Notre Dame Review. She has written Clicking, interconnected short stories, and Rose Has a New Walker, a book of poetry. She has taught writing at the high school and college levels and literature at community senior centers.

TRAGEDY IN [...]

by Devon Balwit

Lebanese security forces confronted protesters during clashes in downtown Beirut on Saturday, following a demonstration against political leaders blamed for a deadly explosion in the city. Credit: Agence France-Presse—Getty Images via The New York Times, August 9, 2020

The United States is becoming like Lebanon and other Middle East countries in two respects. First, our political differences are becoming so deep that our two parties now resemble religious sects in a zero-sum contest for power. They call theirs “Shiites and Sunnis and Maronites” or “Israelis and Palestinians.” We call ours “Democrats and Republicans,” but ours now behave just like rival tribes who believe they must rule or die. And second, as in the Middle East, so increasingly in America: Everything is now politics—even the climate, even energy, even face masks in a pandemic. 

—Thomas Friedman, The New York Times, August 9, 2020

How does a city fall, how does a nation?
A raft of catastrophe floats in & is lashed
to a bollard & then forgotten, pleas for attention
ignored or handed on, fears quashed

beneath derision. Those at the helm creep
away in the dark after pocketing what they can.
Those who cannot leave tremble at the seep
of decay & instability, hoping to withstand

the blast that finally comes. Many won’t.
Their names will be added to a list, misspelled,
the list lost, their ashes scattered amidst
a hundred thousand livelihoods propelled

into calamity. Then, blistering recrimination
& grim survivors doing what must be done.


Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found in here as well as in Jet Fuel, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long-form issue), Tule Review, Grist, and Rattle among others.

EXHUMATION OF RELICS, 2008

by Julie Steiner

“I wish, with all my heart, to be buried in Father Ambrose St John's grave—and I give this as my last, my imperative will.” —Saint John Henry Newman, 1801-1890, canonized on 13 October 2019; the quotation is from “Written in Prospect of Death,”  Meditations and Devotions, Part 3, 1876). See also "“The Empty Tomb: Cardinal Newman's last laugh?” in Commonweal, October 8, 2008.  Photo: Ambrose St John (left) and Saint John Henry Newman.

A miracle, of sorts: an empty tomb—
a skeleton-less grave, though shared by two.
One hundred eighteen years should be too few
for bones and teeth to seep away like rheum.

The undertakers managed to exhume
two coffin handles; damp had rotted through
all else except a gold-thread tassel. Who
could tell which soggy humus went with whom?

Could Church officials separate the clay
of John from that of Ambrose? In a way,
the two became one flesh while six feet under.

Saint John’s been moved; St John stayed put, they say.
And yet the pair defiantly obey
“What God has joined, let no man put asunder.”


Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego. Besides the TheNewVerse.News, the venues in which her poetry has appeared include the Able Muse Review, Rattle, Light, and the Asses of Parnassus.

EMERGENCY ROOM, NYC

by Terese Coe

Sitting on a cot in the walkway of the ER for hours

to get up and walk the circle of disease and decay,

he is struck by the bleeding case, the festering case,

the dying woman no one tends but her daughter.

After four hours the intimidation team of interns

marches in to insist on an overnight stay. You’ll

have a bed within two hours. Another three hours on,

no bed. He cases the joint for exits. Uniformed officers

stand at every exit except one, which is locked,

and prove their seriousness when he

approaches them. Having signed himself in, he is

no longer free to quit the place. He climbs into his

clothing again, saying he’s cold, ambles to the empty

interior hall and waits. Five minutes later a nurse

enters the hall, fails to notice him in the dead

end on the other side, swipes her card on

the pad for the unguarded door and, like a

miracle, passes through the magic portal with her tray

of meds. It remains open just long enough for him to follow

her through unseen. He finds himself in the main hall

of the hospital, suddenly unconstrained across meandering

public areas and out the front door. Intact. At home,

Arlene calls to say she went to visit him in the ER

and they were looking for him: I asked them how you

could have disappeared and a nurse said “He’s not a

psychiatric patient, so we can’t force him to stay.”

He says, “If I’d been there any longer, I would have been

a psychiatric patient.” That night the swelling subsides

when he takes a shower. No one calls from the ER

to ask questions--yet.

Terese Coe's poems and translations have appeared in Threepenny Review, Poetry, New American Writing, Ploughshares, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Huffington Post, Poetry Review, TLS, Agenda, New Walk Magazine, Warwick Review, The Stinging Fly, and many other publications, including anthologies. One of her poems was chosen for the 2012 London Olympics Rain of Poems and heli-dropped across London, and her latest collection of poems will be out in February 2015.