WORLD CUP

by Amy Jean Bailey

The stadium is filling with red

and white striped shirts, a swimming

zigzag. What was left of the potential

rain has melted now into pure light. 

Voices in unison singing 

Seven Nation Army 

by The White Stripes could be heard 

by a barista all the way in Lower

Queen Anne and I want so much

to love it here—the depth 

of our coffee, the sparkle in our sea. 

I want to point to the eagle’s nest 

by the walking path, maybe even have you 

over, where I’ll slide open the closet door

to display my colorful collection

of rainboots of varying heights,

before I gesture towards the Locks 

and explain how salmon 

swim upstream and might still make it—

as if they didn’t need a ladder,

as if we don’t.

Amy Jean Bailey is a poet and educator who has a PhD in anthropology from UCLA. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Timberline Review, Clockhouse, in the anthology The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide (University of Arizona Press), and elsewhere. Born and raised in Chicago, and then living all over the U.S., she now resides with her dog in Seattle, Washington.

ON THE MORNING THE CITY CHANGED ITS WALK

by Khayelihle Benghu

 

 

 

 

On the morning the march moved through Johannesburg,
shop gates came down early.


Metal shutters lowered like tired eyelids


before the day had fully spoken.
Foreign-owned stores locked their doors


before noon,


keys turning twice


as if once was no longer enough


to believe in safety.
The taxi driver changed his route again,


avoiding streets where voices


had grown sharper than traffic,


where even the robots seemed unsure


who they were guiding anymore.
No one calls it fear,


but everyone adjusts their walking speed.


Everyone becomes a little more careful


with how they look at strangers.
Somewhere, a shopkeeper counts what might be lost


stock, rent, the years built behind a counter.


Somewhere else, a protester counts what has already been taken


jobs, space, the weight of being seen.
And between them,


the city keeps breathing uneven, uncertain,


but still holding everyone inside it.
A child watches from a doorway


that is neither open nor closed.


A flag lifts, then folds back into itself


as if unsure what it is becoming.
No one says the same story.


But everyone carries the same heat


under their skin.
Later, when the streets grow quiet again,


when footsteps return to ordinary distances,


there is still this question left behind:
how do we live here together


without teaching ourselves


to fear each other's names.

Khayelihle Benghu is a South African writer and an author of The Names We Carry. She explores the themes of resilience grieve, silence and love in every day setting.

ON BEING STUCK AND STACKED DECKS

by Jen Schneider

Dave Granlund cartoon via Milford Daily News.

1. Something bitter. Noun. Plural.

2. Something sour. Noun. Plural.

3. Something sweet. Noun. Plural.

4. Something vulnerable. Noun. Plural.

5. Someone who is vulnerable. Noun. Plural.

6. Something that is increasing in number. Noun. Plural.

7. Something else that increases in number. Noun. Plural.

8. A Whole number. Greater than six and less than eleven.

9. A whole number. Less than six

10. An antonym for permanent.

11. A synonym for the adjective just 

12. Another word for exonerated

Breaking news alerts proliferate. 

Prosper, too. Prime time menus 

of mixed reviews mingle and morph 

amongst clam covered 

palms and sweat stained pits.

Stomachs ache 

of __1__ and __2__. 

 

Memories of __3__ fade into

forever setting suns as storm 

clouds crystallize. Frowns

form. Red and blue ink

blur. Times New Roman

font crosses paths with Lato.

Wet signatures dry. Personals 

pay final respects. Records

are released. 

 

Wild prey wait on nearby wires. Dollars

wait in nearby banks. Electric

energy both watching and waiting. 

Lighting strikes in predictable patterns

and on predictable prey.

 

The vulnerable press. Charge, too.

No matter. Mathematics makes

for logical work and two consonants 

(F / R)

and two vowels 

(E / E) 

yield a limited

number of combinations. 

Permutations, too.

 

Reef(s) hover at or near

the surface of stormy seas. 

Barriers built to protect those

in need - __4__

and __5__ weaken

until those in need become

no more than numbers. 

 

Data most revealing. 

Most numbers grow - 

__6__ and __7__

while others diminish. 

Brute force always finds a way

to unlock combinations long

proffered as secure. Sentences

often flip, then flop. __8__ turns

to __9__with a subtle twist.

Zippers release and seams snap.

Nylon curtains drop and faux

satin sheets fall. Silver

linings dissipate.

Accounts empty then fill.

 

Golden standards have always been tarnished.

Gambling has always been a predetermined 

proposition. Printing presses turn out F.R.E.E.

passes as pressed charges turn off the lights.

Light, too. Games systems everywhere.

 

Not all Aces are pure. 

Not all Spades are sacred. 

To win is not always ___10___.

To be free, not always __11__.

 

Hands reveal hidden tricks

and luck turns. Locks turn left 

and engines run. Game on 

and now over. Energy depleted.

 

To be free 

is not to be __12__.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.