AIR QUALITY ALERT

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

The National Weather Service has issued an air quality alert for Aug. 11-12 for multiple northern Michigan counties because of smoke drifting south from Canadian wildfires. —Lansing State Journal, August 10, 2025

We’re in charge of so little. Less than an acre; a cat. Clearing debris from the street drain. The few things we control are so inconsequential, no one cares. Not even us. Take my lungs. Please. Take Canadian wildfire smoke. Their wilderness makes civilization  hard. Even deer here in Michigan wear masks. How do they get them on?  Last week, we found out we were made of plastic. Today particulate matter is coating our lungs with Teflon. Silver Beach is like the bottom of an ashtray half full of gin. Haze, the weather man says, trying to fool the tourists. Maple/bacon smoke rolls in, a plague from the Northwest, but we are so far gone, its smell only makes us hungry.

Elizabeth Kerlikowske’s latest chapbook is Falling Women, with painter Mary Hatch.

YOU ASK WHO I ADMIRE

by Katherine Smith

I admire the bare branches of trees

for reaching into the sky

tinged pink by a winter dawn.

I admire my student for showing up

to class on this cold February morning

after she was evicted from her home

I admire lungs for breathing

the splintered air, bare fingers

for scraping frost.

I admire the baby still attached to her mother

by the umbilical cord

who survived

the earthquake.

I admire the uncle who found the baby

under the rubble.

I admire the father who sobs

my back is broken,

his grief a prayer.

And most of all

I admire the mother brave

enough to give birth

on this brave earth.

Katherine Smith’s recent poetry publications include appearances in Boulevard, North American Review, Mezzo Cammin, Cincinnati Review, Missouri Review, Ploughshares, Southern Review, and many other journals. Her short fiction has appeared in Fiction International and Gargoyle. Her first book Argument by Design (Washington Writers’ Publishing House) appeared in 2003. Her second book of poems Woman Alone on the Mountain (Iris Press) appeared in 2014. She works at Montgomery College in Maryland.

FIRE SEASON

by Laton Carter

Smoke turns the morning light orange on Saturday in this photo taken near the Huckleberry Lookout, provided by the Cedar Creek Fire Incident Command. Credit: Cedar Creek Fire Incident Command via InciWeb and OPB, September 12, 2022

It is not that fire is snow. It is not even

that falling ash is snow. The sky

 

is stunned, swallowed

by a yellow glove whose palm

 

opens to haze and drifting filament. Burned

bodies, trees that pursed their mouths, that

 

refused to gasp or cry, handrails that melted, that

obeyed the persistence of time, they are

 

floating. (Floating only appears directionless.)

Summer is winter. Hold up your hand. In winter

 

no one answers. It is not that snow

is winter. Breathe in. Your lips, your throat,

 

your lungs. Prepare yourself.

Floating is not a weightless task.

 

Crucible,

blind pilot, un-

yielding conflagration.

Laton Carter's Leaving (University of Chicago Press) received the Oregon Book Award. His writing also appears in Indiana Review, Narrative, and Split Lip Magazine.

AS TIME GOES BY

by DeWitt Clinton

 "A sigh is just a sigh."    

—lyric by Herman Hupfeld

Some of us may have made it, or we at least pretend

We have made it, though all of us know we’re just

Kidding ourselves, but what else is there now that

A few of us can fill our lungs without stinging bats

That somehow did not find their way down into us.

We could also take the next hour (day) (week) (year)

To remember all those who have fallen, who did not

Know what in the world was inside of them, but it

Was inside them, and many who were nearby have

Also fallen down, some in the most hopeless places

Of the world, and as well, some in the most luxurious

Rooms not everyone could dream about, but still,

It might do us all some good to just remember what

None of us could ever imagine happening just like

That.

DeWitt Clinton taught English, Creative Writing, and World of Ideas courses for over 30 years at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater. He is a student of Iyengar Yoga, and occasionally substitutes as a Zoom yoga instructor for seniors in The Village of Shorewood, Wisconsin. His four collections of poetry include The Conquistador Dog Texts, The Coyot. Inca Texts (New Rivers Press), At the End of the War (Kelsay Books, 2018), and By a Lake Near a Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters (Is A Rose Press, 2020). A fifth poetry collection has been accepted by Word Tech Communications.

WAITING ROOM

by Laura Rodley

Graphic from The Atlantic.

Don’t let anyone tell you different,

it takes guts to sit in the chair

after your vaccine waiting

for possible anaphylactic shock,

it takes guts to hold up the mirror of fear

and see it showing your face masked,

it takes guts to weight the pros and cons,

death and life, the accordion wings

of your two lungs expanding, their

three lobes lifting up like the mouths

of goldfish inside a koi pond, it takes

guts to fill your tank with gas

holding the nozzle that some stranger

held, hand sanitizer wiping away

germs, wiping away fear, it takes

guts to drive yourself to your appointment,

the second time, all because you don’t

want to lose your place in line of this

carousel called life, all for real, and

the whole time, your lungs, their pink

tenderness expands and contracts,

without you asking, even when you sleep.

Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner, is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and As You Write It Lucky Lucky 7, a collection of 11 writers' work.

COVID ABATTOIR

by Philip C. Kolin

Above: Family members of JBS USA meat packing plant employee Saul Sanchez watch as his casket is lowered during his funeral after he died of Covid-19 in Greeley, Colo., on April 15, 2020.Jim Urquhart / Reuters via NBC

“Meatpackers deny workers benefits for virus-related deaths, illnesses.” 

—NBC, September 29, 2020

Upton Sinclair is roiling in his grave.

Things have not changed in Packingtowns

across America. Covid has just made them worse.

The virus works well in these damp, cold, sun-

blocked meat processing plants where droplets can settle 

and slay much longer. Gigantic fans whirl and spread 

saturated foul air as workers breathe each other's

infected coughs and sneezes.  Loud machinery demands

they must talk louder and farther to announce Covid's arrival.

All in cramped spaces.

Packed shoulder to shoulder, workers have to

butcher in non-stop 10-12 hour shifts, no plexiglass

or strip curtains between them. Processing lines

move at race car speeds, leaving workers even  more

vulnerable thanks to exhausted breath, great Covid hosts. 

It's a lung-breaking job. And sharing knives

and hammers means shaking hands with coworker Covid.

Like the animals they eviscerate and de-hide,

these meat processing workers leave the plant

with slaughtered lives, their lungs and hearts offal.

It's a jungle in these plants.

Philip C. Kolin is the Distinguished Professor of English (Emeritus) and Editor Emeritus of the Southern Quarterly at the University of Southern Mississippi. He has published more than 40 books on Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, African American playwrights as well as ten collections of poems. His most recent books are Reaching Forever: Poems in the Poiema Series of Cascade Books and, forthcoming from Main Street Rag, Delta Tears.

HOW TO FLATTEN THE CURVE

by Mike LaForge

You know the military, our great military, greatest military in the world,
has weapons that could, I mean, they have, what, machine guns
that fire an incredible number of rounds per second, per SECOND,
very powerful, and I think those weapons could really do a number
on a virus. Maybe there’s a way, I don’t know. What have you got
to lose if they’ve tried everything else? Just shoot the patient
in the lungs with a machine gun. Cuz it’s the lungs that you have to
get. That’s where the virus goes, am I right?  I’m not a doctor,
but many people tell me that I have a tremendous understanding
of this stuff. It’s incredible when you think about it.

Mike LaForge lives near Vancouver, BC, Canada, teaches English to non-native speakers, and has been writing poetry as a hobby for most his life.

JOHN PRINE

by Meghan Sterling




How fragile is the human body,
all cells and skin, tissue-thin,
light as filament in the center of the bulb,
as quick to flicker and go out.
Another one gone. Lungs to shreds,
voices done in one by one
as we lose a generation of lovers,
people with grit to bear hard things,
all that disappointment like bitters
in the throat, fire as it goes down,
medicine as it heals. O, these songs
that cradled us as we wept and were alone.
I remember a snowfall so deep
the very white of it was dark as death,
and I listened to records that sustained
my tender hold on life, each day another day
I soldiered through.  And I have you to thank
for many of the moments that I chose to go on.

Meghan Sterling lives in Portland, Maine with her family. She is co-editor of the anthology A Dangerous New World: Maine Voices on the Climate Crisis published by Littoral Books. Her work has been published in Rattle, Balancing Act 2, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Driftwood Press, Sky Island Journal, Literary Mama and others.  Her chapbook How We Drift was published by Blue Lyra Press. She is a poetry reader for the Maine Review, Featured Poet in Frost Meadow Review’s Spring 2020 issue, and a Hewnoaks Artists' Colony Resident in 2019 and 2020.

AT LI WENLIANG'S DEATH

by Yuan Changming

The death of a Chinese doctor who was silenced by the police for being one of the first to warn about the coronavirus set off an outpouring of grief and anger on social media. The New York Times interviewed him last week. Photo: Mourners at a vigil for Dr. Li Wenliang on Friday. Credit: Lam Yik Fei for The New York Times, February 7, 2020

Your humanistic lungs have no more air to pump out
But your whistle-blowing is echoing afar
Like a whale’s call, far beyond a whole continent
Louder than all the songs ever sung in modern China

Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, eight chapbooks & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among 1639 others worldwide.

SARIN WORK

by Alejandro Escudé

Volunteers wear protective gear during a class of how to respond to a chemical attack, in the northern Syrian city of Aleppo on September 15, 2013.JM LOPEZ/AFP/GETTY IMAGES via Wired.

The mood is sarin and the light is sarin
there are sarin children dancing in the air
convulsing skyward, there are sarin trees
and sarin ships firing sarin missiles
at sarin airports where sarin helicopters
sit ready to traverse sarin lands, over sarin
rooftops, blanketing a country of sarin,
a language of sarin, the sarin of resorts
where the leaders of sarin meet to discuss
treaties over sarin and ice cream. But one
needs two chemicals to form sarin, and sarin
lasts a short time, sarin is short as life itself,
meaningless really, unless it is packaged
just right; still, a world without sarin is a world
flooded in sarin, with sarin dreams like those
of the sarin children who felt it rain down
on them and saw their fingers turn to roads,
their lungs become mountains, their hearts
pumping sarin into their sarin souls.


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.