INTERVAL

by Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

They said

this is your moment.

So we sat—

a few rows in—

watching

democracy

adjust its lights.

Promises entered first.

Well-dressed.

Fluent.

They spoke

in our language—

better than we do, sometimes.

Jobs arrived next—

counted aloud,

like blessings

no one stopped to check.

Cash followed quietly.

No speeches.

Just something understood

without being said.

We clapped.

Not loudly—

just enough.

Somewhere between

need

and negotiation,

we stopped thinking too much

about what was ours

and what was being offered.

The button—

small,

decisive,

mercifully simple.

Press.

Nothing to show later.

Interval.

Lights dim.

Noise settles

somewhere behind us.

When the curtain lifts again,

the stage is lighter.

Fewer promises.

Some things

just not there this time.

What was announced

comes back

“under process.”

What was certain

slows down—

then disappears.

We do not protest.

We adjust.

Survival stretches itself

over the years.

Dignity—

it comes and goes.

Outside,

the posters fade first.

Inside,

something follows.

Next election,

they will return—

with improved scripts,

cleaner numbers,

and our own words

borrowed again.

And we—

seasoned audience,

repeat believers—

will take our seats

before the lights come on.

No one will ask

what the first show changed.

No one will ask

why we stayed.

The applause will begin

on time.

And we will give it—

not because we believe,

not because we forgot,

but because

we have learned.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a poet and writer based in India. After a 36-year career in India’s power sector, he now focuses on literary writing. His work explores public memory, environmental crisis, social change, and everyday human endurance. His poetry has previously appeared in The New Verse News and other international journals.

WHITE PAPER

by Alexis Krasilovsky

Photocollage by the poet.

Blank sheets of white paper were a symbol of defiance over the weekend as Chinese protesters braved likely prosecution to openly oppose the government's policy of zero tolerance for COVID and public dissent. —Newsweek, November 28, 2022.  China has rolled back its most severe Covid policies—including forcing people into quarantine camps—just a week after landmark protests against the strict controls. —BBC, December 7, 2022

the white hibiscus

moves in solidarity

with the protesters

who hoist white posters

of invisible slogans

perfumed with freedom.

Alexis Krasilovsky was born in Alaska, survived sexual assault at gunpoint, knows what it’s like to be completely deaf, and has traveled to over twenty countries. Educated at Yale and CalArts (MFA Film/Video), Krasilovsky is the author of “Watermelon Linguistics: New and Selected Poems” (Cyberwit – finalist, 2022 International Book Awards) and other books. Her award-winning poetry film, "The Parking Lot of Dreams" (2021) has screened in over a dozen festivals worldwide.

INFESTATION

by Jean L. Kreiling


Our town’s been stricken by an infestation
more visible than gypsy moths or bees.
These pests won’t sting or cause deforestation;
in fact, they look a little bit like trees,

but short, malformed, and ugly. They sprout words
instead of leaves—red, white, and blue, all caps;
no green-clad limbs support alighting birds
or shelter chipmunks for their morning naps.

Instead, the stunted, manufactured trunks
support annoying pleas for our support
of earnest men and women—and some skunks
and swindlers—who pursue an autumn sport.

Theirs is, in fact, a most important game;
the outcome could affect our lives and work.
But while the roadside vermin swarm, each name
propped on a pole looks like that of a jerk.

This plague will end; we must try to remember
that time always exterminates these lines
of lurid boldface blight.  By late November,
we’ll cheer the landslide loss of campaign signs.

Image source: Duane Burnett.com

Jean L. Kreiling's work appears widely in print and online journals and in anthologies.  She was the winner of the 2011 Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, and she has been a finalist for the Dogwood Poetry Prize, the Frost Farm Prize, and the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award.