FAIRY TALES

by W. Luther Jett

Satellite images show bodies lay in Bucha for weeks, despite Russian claims. —The New York Times, April 4, 2022

Let’s pretend the moon

is made from cheese, and bees

go there when they die,

and the river runs backward

on alternate weeks, and, oh,

the tallest peaks

are covered in ice cream—

you could climb them in just

ten giant steps—or fly.

Yes, let’s pretend that we

can fly. Also, let’s pretend

that summer will have no end.

The rifle isn’t loaded. Those

are not dead bodies there,

bloating in the city square.

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of four poetry chapbooks: Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father (Finishing Line Press 2015), Our Situation (Prolific Press 2018), Everyone Disappears (Finishing Line Press 2020), and Little Wars (Kelsay Books 2021).

WHAT IT TAKES TO LIVE HERE

by Joseph Hope

Gunmen have killed at least 30 people in northwest Nigeria in the latest round of violence in which hundreds have been killed so far this year and thousands more displaced. —The Washington Post, October 18, 2021. Photo: Some members of the Nigerian Armed Forces Sniper Unit. Stefan Heunis/AFP via Getty Images via The Conversation, October 18, 2021

What it takes to live here.

                 Numb. Wait for the news:

unknown gun men killed an 

             unknown number of people, 

go to bed and hope there is 

             tomorrow, of course there is 

always tomorrow 

                       and aways bad news, 

a man named Naira 

                       fell from it high horse 

and broke more than a neck. 

                         The president said shoot 

the protesters, No, 

                      the Army chief did, No, 

an unknown fraternity bigger 

than the government gave the command, 

we don't know who fired 

                                 but we know who died. 

Pretend. Pretend you're happy 

and unhurt, riddled with holes and alive. 

Try to live on unpaid  

                               salaries for months 

and save enough to buy a house 

                          from unpaid pensions. 

Understand to plan your future  

                           on nothing but prayer, a lot of it 

that the church overflows and spill

into the street                         like chemical waste. 

                  Understand ghost walking, 

understand the rhythm of bullets, 

                          understand the many ways you could 

die gradually until blood              looks like red paint, 

                  until bodies piled like groundnut 

pyramid appear 

              as a necessity.

                       It would take more than 

the blood of children drooling from the altar 

                       of terrorism to 

inflate your already               deflated emotion. 

The superpower           of being a Nigerian 

is that you can              make comic of death, 

dance in anger,             and swallow grief 

like your daily                  vitamin supplement.

Joseph Hope is a student of Usman Danfodio University, Sokoto, Nigeria. He is currently studying applied chemistry. His works are forthcoming or already published in Reckoning Press, Evening Street Press, Zoetic Press, The New Verse News, Praxis Magazine, AfroPoetry, Gemini Spice Magazine, Spillwords, SprinNG, Writers Space Africa, Nthanda Magazine, 5th Chinua Achebe Anthology, Ariel Chart, Best "New" African Poets 2019 Anthology, and more. He's a reader for Reckoning Press. He was a fellow in the 2021 SprinNG Writing Fellowship. He tweets @ItzJoe9 & IG: _hope_joseph

SELECTIVE MEMORY AS FUTURE TOPIC FOR AN ELEGY

by Lyndi Bell O'Laughlin


The “good old days” induce a thin,
waxy coating on the outermost cells
of the lining of the throat,
carry a subliminal aftertaste
of Let's pretend that didn’t happen,
our capacity for denial so dignified
it should wear a chimney pot hat,
its name unmentionable, like Yahweh,
multiplied by seven billion.

The pain of contradiction and repetition
destined to repeat the curly climb
of Pacific Salmon full of eggs,
ignoring the promise in each other's eyes,
there is just the blinkless
death spiral of instinct to extinct,
this being the only way
some are able to rise each morning,
are able to shove a foot down a pant leg
before brushing their teeth with the frightful paradox
I am not to blame, but the blame is mine,

and the sunrise spreads its royalty over
bombed-out ruins and refugees,
exiles, gut piles, and Goldman Sachs;
water and air grow confused,
don’t know where to go

Image source: Smith & Wesson

to escape the uncle's hand,
dry earth shrivels and shrinks,
tries to swallow.

The poets conjure sublime descriptions
of the beauty of a spruce bough in winter;
poems that sing rhythmic sunrise colored
sleights-of-hand that make me yearn for the day
my sister and I snuck into our parents' closet,
hoping to catch the loose corner
of a shiny-bowed Christmas present;
and for a moment we did,
then remembering hard enough,
the glittering gift of my imagination disappears,
and there is only the stack of dog-eared Playboys,
the empty vodka bottles,
the battered 20-gauge shotgun
leaning cockeyed in the corner.

Lyndi Bell O’Laughlin is a poet from Wyoming, USA. Lyndi’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers (Sastrugi Press, 2016), TheNewVerse.News, Gyroscope Review, Unbroken Journal, and elsewhere. 

UNCONVENTIONAL SONNET FROM A PARTY GIRL

by Heather Newman

In a frenzied state we grab house seats
at our monthly caucus disguised as lunch,
you, my friend, choose presidential three-course
espousing on your glutton free
while I count empty calories lucky.
Pretense is our nation under God
divisible by the sum of those unfortunates
multiplied by calculated ladies who agree
to disagree as they divvy up the check,
birthdays come and conventions go
to super delegated party chatter
primarily leading to swift completion
if snow or rain glooms decision day,
I vote we stay home and watch TV.

Heather Newman is a member of the South Mountain Poets (NJ) and studies with The Writer’s Studio (NYC.) Her work has been published in Two Hawks Quarterly, Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and EChook, and will be featured in the upcoming anthology, Voice From Here, Vol. II.