A CURRENT EVENT

by Cecil Morris

On last night’s news, the demonstrations

of officers with their newest “tool”:

the electric shock glove, a low-voltage stunner

that makes their pretend “criminals” drop

to their knees, agonized. They promise that,

this “tool” will cause no permanent harm,

will not leave a mark, and I think about

the old beatings—Jim Crow days—that left

no marks, about unsworn officers of abuse

with the shock gloves to keep their wives—

or husbands—or kids or dogs in line,

about encouraging compliance with

velvet gloves. I think about poor Midas

and his golden touch, about that episode

of Cheers when know-it-all postman Cliff

in avoidance therapy begins to shock

himself. I think of just desserts,

of what goes around comes around,

of ICE officers shocking each other

or themselves by accident

or having to don shock-proof rubber sleeves,

maybe whole wet suits as prophylactics,

the newest body armor by Body Glove,

and non-compliant protesters dressed

like frogmen, too.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The 2River View, the Common Ground Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection At Work in the Garden of Possibilities (Main Street Rag) came out in 2025. His second collection, Daughter Lost and Found and Lost, will come out from Kelsay Books in 2027.  He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.

THE GIRL; A DIAMOND

by Jennifer Schneider

in honor of the Women’s Professional Baseball League Draft—gems, in a league of their own.

For the first time in history, women’s professional baseball players heard their names called in a Draft. The inaugural WPBL Draft on November 2025 was more than just a list of picks; it was be the moment when the league’s four founding teams took shape. The newly assembled teams will then begin preparing for the inaugural season. For the athletes, it will mean competing alongside—and against—the best players in the world. For fans, it’s the start of a new tradition: professional women’s baseball at a level never seen before. —WPBL

The girl spends her days dreaming of diamonds. 
The girl spends her nights playing the field.
The girl fields heavy hitters. The girl
catches sluggers. Of dingers and stingers
and grand-slam aces, the girl swings.
The girl hits as hard as she pitches.
She doesn’t care for cracker jacks.
She doesn’t bluff the crowd’s backs.
She doesn’t whistle at strikes.
She doesn’t negotiate the crows’ caw.
She doesn’t wait for a league to call.
She plays in a league of her own.
She plays the game she loves.
She loves her life.
She relishes full counts.
She balances balls like Jello.
She calculates the distance
from home at awkward angles.
She drives hard. She runs harder.
She’s strong. She’s tough. Tougher
than the Earth’s hardest, natural
mineral. She’s a natural gem.
A woman. A pioneer. A revolution
in motion. Fingers wrapped
around wood. She’s at home on the turf.
She’s got good eyes and a love of leather.
She prefers supple gloves, white pants,
and form-fitting helmets. She doesn’t need
a diamond on her finger. She hits her own home runs.
Of blisters, bloopers, and bleeders, she cleans–
she cleans the bases. Of manicured fields
and destination bleachers, the girl is a pro. The girl
is home, home at last–at the plate where the diamond
begins and where the diamond ends.

Jennifer 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.

DURING LOCKDOWN

by Michael Mark





I danced in my house, every room, Watusied
into the cul-de-sac, in my neighbors’ yards,
driving dogs mad, setting off alarms. I Twisted
and shimmied, broke it down home-style to
the blasts, screeches, and wails for my neighbors
in their afternoon pjs, who banged on their windows,
flipped the finger, pointed pistols, semis, until
their yelling and banging turned into yodeling
and bumping and they switched on their entertainment
systems and danced in their living rooms with me
on their lawns. We danced at a safe distance, masks
on. They must’ve thought, This is kinda marvelous.
I danced on the runways and on the one plane cleared
to fly me to my sick dad. I danced for the captain
and I danced in the hospital where my 94 year old pop
was able to—to the gasps of the ICU nurses, whom I
waltzed with—raise a finger and conduct the band
in my head and we held hands so he wasn’t alone,
scared, and he felt I was a good son.

               No

Here’s what really happened: I abided by the edict,
stayed in, ate canned soup, rationed toilet paper,
washed my hands with soap while I sang songs
for two full minutes, sang to make sure I didn’t skimp,
sudsing conscientiously to rub those viral germs away,
adhering to the officials, and to keep from getting bored
I danced to the song I sang in the bathroom, even while
I dried. I danced in my house, and in my neighbors’
yards. I Boogalooed in the grocery with the elderly,
the most vulnerable, like my dad, in New York, alone,
94, who I can’t be with, and we danced in the oatmeal aisle,
cookie aisle, the Depends aisle, the pet food aisle.
They knew all the steps and we wore masks and gloves
and I took them by their tiny hands and we twirled
and twirled.

Michael Mark’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, Michigan Quarterly Review, Salamander, Salt Hill Journal, The Southern Review, The New York Times, The Sun, Waxwing, The Poetry Foundation's American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily. He’s the author of two books of stories including Toba and At the Hands of a Thief (Atheneum). @michaelgrow