THE LARGE ONES HAVE JOINED I.C.E.

by Michelle DeRose

My grade school had no gymnasium.

The auditorium hosted PE class

on rain-darkened days or those slick 

with ice, the low stage across the front

shrouded in its thick brown curtain.

Sometimes a tumbling mat and low-

mounted 2 x 4 meant gymnastics,

balance practice as we dip-stepped

across the board, arms in airplane wings,

or body control while we somersaulted.

But when upcoming plays or assemblies

required a clear floor, rain meant dodgeball.

The largest classmates hurled soccer

and volley balls at the tiny and slow.

Me with two friends, hidden in folds.

Even across the room, a direct hit

could bruise, slap, jangle teeth. The large

ones were praised for their power,

their aim, the swiftness with which

one by one they took us out.

We just hoped to be unnoticed behind the brown,

that our quiet retreat to art’s cloaked stage

would enable us to endure the long hour,

return to our desk where Stuart Little

waited in its belly for us.

Michelle DeRose is Professor Emerita of English at Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is writing a poem a day in her retirement. It might not be enough for sanity under the current administration in the US. She invites all who yearn for a holy heart attack to meditate on it at 10 a.m. EST every day.

EVGENY AND EVGENIIA’S CHOICE

by Melissa Balmain

“Evgeny and Evgeniia faced an excruciating choice. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers told the couple they could leave the United States with their child and return to their native Russia, which they had fled seeking political asylum. Or they could remain in immigration detention in the United States — but their 8-year-old son, Maksim, would be taken away and sent to a shelter for unaccompanied children. In the end, they chose the agony of limbo in the United States over a return to a place where they saw no prospect for freedom or any future for their family... The last time Evgeny and Evgeniia saw Maksim was on May 15” —The New York Times, August 5, 2025. New York Times photo of Evgeny, Evgeniia, and Maksim.

 

Sophie’s Choice seemed light-years from our time,

a fading tragedy that made us weep

for Streep.

 

But now with tactics changing on a dime

in brutal ways we thought could not repeat,

sick heat

 

pervades my belly and begins to climb:

how can we keep denying what it means

when scenes

 

unspool of parents, guilty of no crime,

compelled to choose the thing that they most fear,

right here?

Melissa Balmain edits Light, North America's longest-running journal of comic verse. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books).

MS MAXWELL AND THE ART OF THE DEAL

by Raymond Nat Turner

Cartoon by Jean Gouders posted 9 August 2025 on X by Iroon.

For her silence she wants the Ruby

Slippers back—along with her broomstick—

The Lolita Express… Better yet…  she

Wants the jet Qatar gifted grifter Boss Tweet.

She wants all alphabet agencies who

Spy on the American People

Mobilized/weaponized to find out which

Hedge fund flipped a house on her sister.

She wants ICE rounding up a million Munchkins a month

For her pleasure. She wants scores of other peoples’ babies.

She wants impunity to work Quinceañeras, Bat Mitzvahs,

Sweet Sixteens with former father figure, Jel-Low Puddin Man.

She wants a new psyop to co-opt left language.

She wants to use “What’s the call? Free ‘em all!”

To Free Harvey! Free Diddy! Free R. Kelly! And

Allow Russell Simmons to sing, “I believe I can fly!”

She wants Slick Willy notified that honeypots and

Sandwiches will return shortly. She wants Cuomo

To know he can come and go. She wants Papa Cop

To know that he can fly—free—to Turkey.

She wants baby oil tariffs removed. She wants

Diddy as mixologist aboard the Love Boat her

Father fell from and drowned in waters off the

Canary Islands.

She wants use of some 800 plus bases run by

Greasy-thumbed generals. Preferably, those

Named for confederate traitors. She wants to erect a new

Headquarters. A station. A secure location for predation.

She wants to “steal” reich-cult blondes for weekly workouts.

Smoothie-fueled saunas, steam baths and mani-pedis in secure

White supremacist, settler-colonial, tropical paradises. Built on

Profaned bones of indigenous ancestors.

Finally, if she’s found “unresponsive.” Entangled in sheets. Tumbled from

10th floor window. Or, reciting autopsy, a coroner crows, “A little poison!”

Bury her atop her triple-agent Pop. In Jerusalem’s Mount of Olives Cemetery.

With international intelligence community elite turnout—With 21 gun salute...

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

REAL SUPERMAN

(and "nevah" means “not ever”)

by Regina YC Garcia

Superman would nevah….

pledge allegiance to Lex Luthor

beat down the Tamale Lady

snatch a child from a loving mother

snatch a  loving mother from the grasp of  a terrified child

cage them  strip them  from each other 

pull them from the light of hope 

Superman would nevah….

dump Mr. Terrific from his chair

keep him from accessing his reasonable accommodations

cancel his yearly checkup 

lie about his color… his culture… his merit 

leave him hungry… emaciated… prey for predators 

Superman would nevah….

set fire to non-perishable food

soak the ashes in a blood-soaked ground

willingly hand his red cloak to the enemy that they might cover the eyes of the innocents 

     and steal  their liberty

Superman would nevah….

forget the “Golden Rule”

shut down opportunities 

enlist the fools to join a league of injustice

     that they might  overtake the land

Superman would save the alligators 

from the monsters that built shoddy cages and dangled distraught meat from unclean hands 

Superman would nevah….

forget where he came from

forget who helped him and loved him

     all along the way 

forget that we all have a part to play

     a part that bends towards justice

     redefines the American way

     a way that ushers in a prosperity

     that ensures we all stay free 

     and more 

          and even more 

(unnecessary too tall buildings and death waters be damned)

Regina YC Garcia is a national award-winning poet, professor, and language artist from Greenville, NC. She is a twice-nominated Puscart nominee, and her work has been widely published in a variety of journals reviews and anthologies, as well as musical compositions and documentaries. She is the author of two collections of poetry—Whispers from the Multiverse (Aquarius Press/Willow Books, February 2025) and The Firetalker’s Daughter (Finishing Line Press, March 2023).

I HEAR AMERICA CRYING

by Judy Trupin

holding in their fingers the shreds of constitution
tattered perhaps beyond repair
The insurrectionists running free, absolved
I hear America crying
the carpenter and the mason being dragged away
by the chilling iceman
their families slipping on their tears
and murmuring to each other
What is this land in which we dwell?
A boatman turned pilot ferries them away to 
prisons in countries unknown
I hear America crying
as judges erase the law of the land
another pilot does not cry but grits his teeth
as he drops his bombs
preserving his president’s honor but nothing else
I hear America reeling as yes becomes no
and truth morphs into lies
I hear America whispering
too afraid to sing
to afraid to shout
huddling in their homes
uncertain what the night will bring
or when the night will end
and if they will sing 
and if they will sing
again.

Judy Trupin lives, writes, and thinks in Pittsburgh, PA. Walking, teaching and practicing yoga and singing to her plants keeps her sane.

TREE HUGGERS

by Darcy Grabenstein

In days gone by, “tree hugger”
was used as a slur by some
to describe those granola-crunching types
who wrapped themselves around tree trunks
to prevent loggers and the like
from committing acts of deforestation
To others, “tree hugger” 
comes as a compliment,
describing devoted environmentalists
who care about the earth
about sustainability
about what will be left for the next generation
And now, “tree hugger” describes
those holding on for dear life
as bone-crunching ICE goons
commit acts of deportation
tearing innocents from their roots,
from their loved ones
Have you ever hugged a tree?
In Japan it’s called shinrin-yoku,
forest bathing, transferring
of life force from tree to human.
Native Americans hugged trees
to heal both body and soul.
Here, masked marauders
surrounded a woman seeking haven
using brute force 
to break her embrace
break her spirit
break all moral codes
I wish I could envelop this woman
in a big bear hug
tell her she is welcome here
she is safe here
tell her
she is home
 

A marketing writer by profession, Darcy Grabenstein turns to poetry as a creative and cathartic outlet. The theme of social (in)justice runs through many of her poems, and she longs for the day where her page will finally be blank.

DISAPPEAR

by Mark Danowsky

Art by Alex Bennett

Who? They insist
some darker other
 
We give 
the real villains 
too much rope
 
Time is on
the wealthy side
 
Don’t ignore
matters of class
 
Call out
all the horrors
& misdirection
 
If you wait just
a moment too long—
 
Knock knock knock

on your door

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry and Poetry Craft Essays Editor for Cleaver Magazine. He is the author of several poetry books. His latest poetry collection is Take Care (Moon Tide Press).

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE

by Scott McConnaha

He must've felt proud

seeing his sons become

the thank you he longed

to give a country that made

good on its promise

to realize his dream

of something better,

of peace, of

love.

 

He must've felt duped

as the pretend defenders

beat him from behind

masks revealing rage

against a world that refuses

to bend under

their godless

hate.

Scott McConnaha is a former teacher, editor, and healthcare system administrator. He and his wife, Colleen, live in Plymouth, Wisconsin. They have four children and two grandchildren. Scott has master’s degrees in English and theology and an MBA.

LEFTOVERS

by Daniel Romo

I’m waiting or dehydrating in this midlife loop, 

stuck between nothing and what to do, thirsty 

for a shot of life’s finest spirits and a sip of 

more than just stagnancy. Meanwhile, the 

taco man that sets up across the street from 

me everynight calls out sick on Instagram 

for fear of being caught up in the immigration 

sweep that’s devoured the Southland. One 

minute you’re slicing al pastor for a hungry 

Caucasian community, the next you’re seized 

by men hiding in masks and Americana. I 

prefer my carne asada with a slight char and 

I’m not even mad as the protesters burn the 

US flag in the Long Beach streets because the 

man who likes his meat rare and the neighbor 

who wants it well-done both bleed out when 

hurt and my city is being stabbed, which 

resurrects me as my blood boils into an 

inferno while I offer a torch to scorch every 

dirty star, to incinerate every misplaced stripe.

Daniel Romo writes, lives, and loves in Long Beach, CA.