WHAT I TELL MYSELF

by Marjorie Tesser

 

That it’s all right to mourn. Okay to take a day to grieve. Okay to take it slow,

to do some yoga, take a nap; you know last night you didn’t sleep, the writing

on the wall a tale of loss on loss writ with excruciating slowness, unrelenting speed.

 

I warn myself not to indulge in doom prescience, worrying each bead

of a litany of despoliations sure to come. Try not to guess how they’ll pervert 

the name of freedom, desecrate “liberty,” have their nasty fun.

  

...women’s health and status racism xenophobia homophobia transphobia environmental waste bizarre quasi-scientific theories conspiracy book banning religious hegemony distasteful alliances impetuousness anti-intellectualism clannishness cronyism greed shitty “jokes” glorification of the mean spirited the sociopathic the stupid....

 

(I remind myself I was not going to do that. Tell myself it’s okay 

to backslide, as long as I catch it). Caution myself: anger can spark, 

but combust and turn to ashes.

 

Remind myself I can’t be so surprised; numbers show 

what I already knew in my heart: we’re still a misogynistic, 

racist nation in significant part. Remember that they feed 

 

on negative attention; deny them that sustenance. 

Command myself not to freeze in terror or wallow in despair; 

not to always blunt feelings with self-soothing behavior.

 

I tell myself my job’s the same: to be present, kind, true to my values

and respectful of others’, to support those that champion such aims 

and care for those who need. To uphold ideals, to interpret with empathy. 

 

To try to put it into words. To remind myself of bright points, precious few 

though they may be. I tell myself to write a poem take a walk talk with friends 

spend moments with an animal or tree.

 

The only way is forward.

 

Eyes and mouth, heart and hands and feet.

Marjorie Tesser’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Molecule, Cutleaf, poets.org, SWWIM, and others. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, The Important Thing Is, winner of the Firewheel Chapbook Award (Firewheel Editions 2010), and The Magic Feather (FLP 2011). She has co-edited three anthologies of poetry and prose, and is editor in chief of MER - Mom Egg Review.

BACKCOURT VIOLATION

by Paul Brassard

The original Unsplash photograph of the Supreme Court building by Tim Mossholder was adapted by the poet using the GIMP image manipulation software for use in this haiga.

Paul Brassard is a retired teacher of high school students with behavioral challenges. He has been writing poetry and fiction since he wrote his first short story Honolulu Calling at the age of twelve. Paul has been writing a personal haiku, senyru or haiga every day for the past several years as a method of self-reflection or in response to current events. He writes his short stories and poetry at his home in South Portland, Maine, which he shares with Patti, his wife of 50 years. "Backcourt Violation" is his first published work.

PLEASE CHOOSE

by Donald Sellitti

Nina Chanel Abney, “Hobson’s Choice” (2017), acrylic and spray paint on canvas, 84 1/4 x 120 3/16 x 1 15/16 inches (image via Hyperallergic)

Please choose which dead to mourn. Now,
with your sorrow and your anger still as
raw as the shoveled earth above them. Please choose.

The children in their shorts and Messi jerseys
dead beneath the mothers clothed head to toe
in garments turned to shrouds, or

the children lying bloody in their soccer shirts
shot point blank with mothers forced to watch.
Mourn either one, not both. Please choose.

Scream loudly in my ear until I hear
you. It will never make me feel your pain, but
I might finally come to understand. 

I will not judge you for the choice you make, 
but you have no other choice but choosing.
Please choose which dead you will avenge.
Please choose.

Donald Sellitti honed his writing skills as a scientist/educator at a Federal medical school in Bethesda, MD before turning to poetry following his retirement. Numerous publications in journals with titles such as Cancer Research and Oncology Letters have been followed by publications in journals with titles like The Alchemy Spoon, Better than Starbucks, and Rat’s Ass Review, which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize in 2022.

DIANNE FEINSTEIN IS DEAD

by Marissa Glover

This is the truest thing 
you will read all day. 
 
Some people mourn
others will rejoice
 
some write about legacy
others, swaths of destruction.
 
It happens every time.
Rush Limbaugh, bin Laden—
 
the women/witches at Salem.
What you see always depends 
 
on where you stand. Just ask
the reporters taking notes
 
at Calvary. There were women
crying at the foot of the cross;
 
there were soldiers gambling
for garments. 
 
If you’re looking for truth,
you will not find it here. 
 
Not even consensus. Except
Dianne Feinstein is dead.
 
Be grateful. Elvis and Tupac
can’t even get that much. 
 
Witnesses of the same car crash
offer cops different details…
 
Who is right? It doesn’t matter.
Everything goes into the report.
 
And someday it will be you,
likely not in the news cycle
 
because you’re not famous.
The only people invited
 
to speak at your funeral will 
have something good to say.
 
But there will always be others,
ready with their own story.
 
The only truth: you are dead.

Marissa Glover lives in Florida, dodging storms and swatting bugs. Her poetry collection Let Go of the Hands You Hold was released by Mercer University Press in 2021. Box Office Gospel was published by Mercer in 2023. Follow her on X (Twitter) at @_MarissaGlover_.

MY BODY

by Claire Sapan

In bed each night I am grateful for the body that is mine: 

Skin that protects me, allows me to feel 

Tongue that gives me taste 

Heart that allows me to feel 

But somewhere along the way you decided my body

Was yours

You disassemble me 

Like a Barbie

Bending me in your direction 

At your discretion

Breaking off what you don’t like 

And today you took my choice 

You took autonomy away from me, 

From my body 

So tonight in bed I will mourn 

But tomorrow I will fight 

For at the end of the day, 

This body is mine

Claire Sapan is an avid writer and feminist, hoping and fighting for a better world. 

INTIMATIONS OF DEMOCRACY

by Gus Peterson

Credit: Tannen Maury/EPA, via Shutterstock in The New York Times.

after "Intimations of Immortality" by William Wordsworth

There was a time I glimpsed our declared decree

            and a people, its common block and seam

                        swam with visionary sight—

            e pluribus unum, the American dream.

It is not now as it was before.

            Scroll however I may, by night or day,

                        the might of eagle flight   

I once recalled I call upon no more.

Yes the red rose thorns and goes,

                        a blue wave ebbs and flows,

                        and the old man beams his light

as signs are pulled and lawns made bare,

            the tears that November night

            fell past our fellest despair.

Now with slow labor glorious rebirth,

and yet I know, whither this go,

the city upon a hill has passed from the earth.

  And as networks exalt their united song,

              and the hopeful young stream

                        inside insistent screens,

    I mourn alone that fleeting aberration—

                        once among the throng

   of certain inalienable nations.

Gus Peterson lives in Maine. 

PENCIL

by Indran Amirthanayagam

for Sara Cahill Marron

There is a time to mourn and a time
to review the cards and cast them
again on the table trusting God
to guide your hand, to say this pencil
you left with roses, chrysanthemums,
lilies, in a riot of passionate flowers
before the Supreme Court, will be
picked up by a girl after the period
of mourning, not to be conserved
in the Smithsonian's Museum
of American History, but to write
the story of a young lawyer come
to Washington to interpret laws
with grace, acuity and impartiality,
to the best of her ability, until
such time as their articulation
becomes almost unnecessary,
so ingrained they would become
in the social conscience of
Americans walking then freely. 

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, he recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

THE SENATE IS DEAD

by Jeremy Nathan Marks

When you wake up tomorrow morning,
the Senate will still be dead.

It will not attend your daughter’s graduation.
It will not say “Next year in Jerusalem!”
at your Seder.

It will not offer advice on which lawn service to use
or what types of shingles last longest.

The Senate will not tell you bedtime stories
or remember the year the Washington Redskins last
won a Super Bowl (or even won at all).

When you wake tomorrow
next month
next year
the Senate of the United States
will still be dead.

So, it is best for you to come to terms
and do whatever you must to mourn
appropriately
cathartically
before going on with your life
living your loss

Because it is a loss and let no one say otherwise.

But bear in mind,
the Senate has been dying for a long time
and you were aware that you could not count on it
to come over for Thanksgiving
or Christmas
or not get you into debt
or send your daughter off to war
after all, how many times did the Senate
forget who you were

You kept showing it photographs
reminders of better days
of people it knew who have also passed
you tried to remind it of its forgotten ideas
and values
and how it looked when it was in fighting trim.

So, remember the Senate
maybe even say Kaddish for it
but don’t expect it to fast with you
during Ramadan
or hunt Easter eggs with your son
or bring roasted corn to your tailgate
at the next football game

Because the Senate is dead.

Maybe there is still time to appreciate the last days
of that other ailing giant
the Republic.

Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in London, Ontario. Recent poetry, prose, and photography appear in Apricity, On the Seawall, Red Fez, Barren Magazine, Unlikely Stories, Bewildering Stories, 365 Tomorrows, and Literary Orphans.

THE BURIAL BOYS OF EBOLA

by Alexa Poteet

Sherdrick Koffa, estranged from his family because he helped burn bodies during the Ebola outbreak. Credit Samuel Aranda for The New York Times, December 10, 2015

In Monrovia,
the wakes used to go on for weeks.
The living applied ointment to the dead
with gentle fingertips, kissed
their eyelids shut. Scrubbed under fingernails,
pressed through earrings. Sewed garments of gold, green
for those who would never dress themselves again. Bodies
were not washed but made new and dirtless
for the next life. Their pockets stuffed

with coins. Working men
went days without food to buy
mahogany caskets, marble markers
and plots large enough for houses.
On Decoration Day, brigades
of families brought bleach and good towels
to polish the hand-chiseled tombstones.
This, Liberia once said, was how to cross
into the next life. To keep ghosts
from weeping at your bedside in the night.
There were no burial boys then, you see.

Now—goggled, gloved, otherplanetary—they arrive. Breath
and sweat trapped in a terrarium of plastic. The medical
membrane that keeps good in and bad out. Underneath,
the pockets of their oil-stained clothes
brim with matchbooks. The tools
of this trade are plain.  The boys don’t cry
anymore because the masks fog in the heat. Burning,
the state says, is the only way

The mourners scream, beat their heads with fists
for children set ablaze. Their hair curling into
charred sulfuric tendrils, skin blistered
black.Their pooled blood—an acrid human ore.
Burial boys is a misnomer;
usually, they don’t have to.

Guardians of a safety no one can bear
to want, their belongings litter the street
outside childhood homes. Familiar voices break
in the telephone: You burning body?
Then I’nt want see you no more around me.
The Ministry of Health did not invite them
to the ceremony where foreign doctors
clasped hands with the president.

It sends them moonshine in old cassava crates
once a month. Easy, because they live together;
there’s nowhere else. At night, they pour
cloudy liquor for each other. Clean fingernails
before shooting up
until their minds are spotless.


Alexa Poteet is a poet and freelance writer from Washington, DC with a master’s degree in poetry from Johns Hopkins University. Her poetry has appeared in Reed Magazine, Lines + Stars, and PennUnion among others. She has also enjoyed staff positions at the Washington Post, The Atlantic and The National Interest.

TIBET IS A COUNTRY

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

Image source: globalpost

BEIJING — Chinese police officials have detained a Tibetan monk and his nephew and accused them of playing a role in a series of self-immolations, according to Xinhua, the state news agency. The move appeared to be part of a campaign to prosecute Tibetans who are accused of aiding others who set fire to themselves in protest of Chinese rule. --Edward Wong, The New York Times, December 10, 2012 



1

young monk’s red
and saffron robes
dissolving into flame
the intersection of
faith, courage and despair

2

Outside the rug shop
Tibetan flag flutters
Mourning the death
of the “land of Snows”


Following a trail of words, mountains, spirit and tears, this writer, mother, wife and eventually psychoanalyst left Texas for Colorado in 1985.  The land of the Arapahoe welcomed me and called me by name.  The love of poetry, poet and high mountain valleys has warmed my heart and made my home.  Freud said “everywhere I go, the poet has gone before me.”  May we keep following those footsteps on our paths thru the worlds.  Judith Partin-Nielsen teaches contemplative psychotherapy at Naropa University, practices psychoanalysis and writes poetry.