DROPPING OFF THE NATIVITY

by Tricia Knoll

For the community of Winooski [Vermont], the week following Thanksgiving began with a disturbing absence: a second-grade student’s desk was empty. What followed was a rapid-fire sequence of press releases, emotional pleas, and contradictory reports that have left many Vermonters confused about how a seven-year-old boy went from a holiday road trip to a federal detention center in Texas. —Compass Vermont, December 7, 2025

Handmade of painted paper mâché, the figures of the old nativity scene rest in the tattered box I pick up at the church bazaar for $2. Baby Jesus. A goat. Two men with lambs on their shoulders. Mary. Joseph. Five wise men bearing gifts. Two identical angels hinting this might be a combination from two original sets. A blue angel who cannot stand up. A flimsy barn and dry grass. I leave it on the doorstep where my favorite children live, hoping someone might tell the children the story of outcasts, love and humble housing. How Christmas got its name. Even if they use pagan filters. A text arrives: their house doesn’t do nativity. It’s going to Goodwill. I ask for it back. The news: ICE pulled over a seven-year-old and his mother in Illinois. Originally from Ecuador, they live in the town just upriver from me. The child’s school was the first declared sanctuary school in Vermont. The mother and child are now in detention in Texas. The superintendent of schools works to raise money for legal aid, to help the father contact them. Inside me sounds like sanctuary, mercy, peace, star of hope and love reverberate like the striking of a distant temple bell. 

Tricia Knoll's hometown of Williston, Vermont is the center of ICE's national data collection and the place scouring social media to find evidence of immigrants without citizenship. She is a poet currently writing in prose. Her chapbook The Unknown Daughter was recently a finalist in the New England Poetry Club chapbook contest.

INDESTRUCTIBLE NARRATIVE

by Peter F. Crowley

An aerial photograph taken by a drone shows displaced Palestinians returning to Rafah, a day after the ceasefire deal between Israel and Hamas came into effect, Gaza Strip, Monday, Jan. 20, 2025. (AP Photo/Mohammad Abu Samra)

Trump Plan for Gaza “Worse Than Ethnic Cleansing,” Says UN Human Rights Expert: Unlawful deportation or transfer of a population constitutes both a war crime and a crime against humanity. —Truthout, February 9, 2025

The usurper grinned,
broad-brimmed sunbeam hat, squinted eyes
while folding a pair of old,
torn jeans and stuffing them 
into a Goodwill bag
muttering to himself, 

“What was before never was.
What is now is the beginning.
Plow the forest, melt the trees,
farm the virgin land 
and let grass grow over villages.
We will soon forget what never was.”

From a rip in the Goodwill bag, 
a jeans leg fell out.

No matter how deep you bury,
No matter how many villages are liquidated,
You cannot kill the narrative of those
who were there before.


As a prolific author from the Boston area, Peter F. Crowley writes in various forms, including short fiction, op-eds, poetry and academic essays. His writing can be found in 34th Parallel, Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Digging the Fat, Adelaide’s Short Story and Poetry Award anthologies (finalist in both) and The Opiate. He is the author of the poetry books Those Who Hold Up the Earth and Empire’s End, and the short fiction collection That Night and Other Stories.

GREEN TEA AND A CANDY BAR

by David Chorlton

On a desert cool December evening
outside the CVS branch
a dark shape in the parking lot
asks for green tea and a candy bar.
He doesn’t say Please, doesn’t

want to chat, doesn’t introduce
himself, doesn’t offer a story
to explain why he’s here
with a rolled up blanket and
bad teeth; he just stirs like a conscience

with Christmas on the way
and knows what he wants
even if he’ll settle for less.
It’s difficult to concentrate
on peace and goodwill when

there are hostages in the news,
as well as police and yellow tape
around the house where a man
died of self-inflicted wounds
after killing his ex-wife and whomever

else was within range, while
the breaking story farther away
is more brutal than a video game.
A truce would be nice, or an outbreak
of compassion. Maybe a little snow

to fall on Phoenix to convince us
of the season. We select an energy bar
to go with the tea, not exactly
what he asked for, but he takes it
as he turns to leave without offering

a Thank You, just heaves
his bundle onto his back as if
to load a world of worry he can’t change
and tell us what he really wants
is a cup of hot coffee.

David Chorlton came to Arizona in 1978 after living in England and Austria. He has spent more than three decades stretched between cultures and writing poetry, the pick of which has just appeared as his Selected Poems, from FutureCycle Press.