I WANT TO SEE IT

by Tricia Knoll

Trump fingerprinted. Putting his fat fingers

on the inky pad, rolling each one back 

and forth like criminals do. Dirty

hands. Who hands him something

to wipe the ink off? Does he bite at his

lip angry about he got here? Does he try 

to make a joke, pretend it’s an autograph

requested by some MAGA man

in a red hat? Talk about it going 

to his Library? 

 

Those secret service agents watching, 

what do they know of irony?

What vow have they made?

 

The bored jail officer has done this

a million times. Can that officer

categorize the look in the eye of this man? 

 

When it’s all done, is he obsessed

with the shadow of ink only he

can see? Wondering what smut 

clogs his crevices, the bacteria 

that linger. Does he ask his aide

for hand sanitizer as if to wipe

away the moment. 

 

Does anyone in the room dare

laugh?

 

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet. Her most recent collection is One Bent Twig (FutureCycle Press, 2023) which shares poems about trees she has loved, planted or worries about in the time of climate change.

IN STATES OF SUSPENSION (& HOPE) :: OF LEAKS, TWEAKS, & BREACH

by Jen Schneider

amidst stunned

states & stunning

breaches

 

alongside

whispers 

turned quakes

 

& leaks 

turned looks

 

that suggest pens

both feared 

and feathered

 

have chosen a line

on which to claim 

their fight

 

            stains 

                        stomps           

squashes 

states 

   rights

 

one can pray (in spaces

of religious neutrality)

 

that the ink 

blot will be contained

           

stains 

                        stomps 

squashes 

            states 

   rights

& that the breaking

news is merely 

a sign of the times

 

turbulence

amidst days 

heavy of bait

 

            stains 

                        stomps 

squashes 

            states 

   rights

 

rather than

an alert  

of the (dark) ages

& finalized pages

 

            so that fifty years

 

of reproductive rights

remains on & of books 

produced

with no breaks

 

stitched tight

not of patchwork

but of federal right

 

& of plights

with no turns

 

& of nights

with no detours

 

& ideologies

remain unstamped

 

in sacred (politically

neutral) spaces

of individual (personally

critical) places

 

            of individual

rights

 

before

the ink dries

 

hope resists

            & remains      

resolute

 

that quakes  

settle 

& reproductive 

freedom

 

persists

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.

HOW WE IMAGINED WE BLED OUR SUPPLICATIONS

by Ranjani Murali

Ink, Blood, and Tears, an OtherWords cartoon by Khalil Bendib

As if water dripping into
            the steel sink, bleaching

our brushes white, scoring the floors
            of our glass-doored office /

as if the vein of our favorite fountain
            pens (the ones that dug into

our index fingers while we caricatured
            old art teachers with balding

heads) had been spliced, spurting forth
            ink-splotched faces, the aphorisms

we drew in bubbles, their blood-vowels /
            as if bullets we drove into the walls

of easels, blithely / as if specks of flesh
            carving out their wounds, sinew

torn in watercolor, shards of glass painted
            in felt-tips / as if the tilt of our

mouths in these scenes, the seconds we
            almost smiled between smearing

steeple-minaret-altar as if wings / as if
            hierologists of tomorrows,

revealing our schisms, our compositions
            in grays and whitespace/ as

if ours, a name stenciled on drywall, on
            acid-free paper, beneath our

benedictions, beneath the as if / as if
            beneath the /  if  /


Ranjani Murali received her MFA in poetry from George Mason University. Her poetry, nonfiction and translations have appeared in Pratilipi, Phoebe, elimae, Kartika Review and elsewhere. She was the recipient of the 2014 Srinivas Rayaprol Prize and has received fellowships from the Fine Arts Work Center and the Vermont Studio Center.

INK

by Alejandro Escudé

Cyprien @MonsieurDream

I draw 

a cartoon of a god.

The god encircled 

by wolves.

The wolves 

with the faces of politicians.

I am a politician

sitting at my desk.

I hold my gonads 

tight under it,

here comes the myrrh, 

here comes

the frankincense. 

Where to draw the line?

I keep it simple 

and I fry. I make 

it complicated 

and I am incarcerated. 

Where to draw the line?

I said what I said. 

I’d say it atop 

the Eiffel Tower, too. 

I’d scream it  

from within 

the Bridge of Sighs.

Orphan. 

Poor. 

Alone. 

God-crazy. 

Where to draw, 

what to draw,

how to draw it 

fairly, plainly, lovingly.

The blood in my body 

was not ink.

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems, My Earthbound Eye, in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.