FLIPPING BACK AND FORTH

Between the Artemis II Launch Live Stream and the Live Stream of the Supreme Court Hearing Arguments Regarding Birthright Citizenship

by Liz Ahl

 

Someday, humans may be born on the moon.

Whose moon may or may not be in dispute

in that future I imagine, as I flip from laptop tab

to tab on April Fool’s Day, feeling a little foolish

with the thrill-flutter summoned by the fully-fueled

rocket; feeling also a little edgy with my Gen X

rocket-gone-wrong memory. But thrill wins out

and I don’t look away as the biggest rocket

we’ve sent up since I was a toddler burns skyward,

moonward. As the nation burns deathward—

a rocket-spitting machine both fueled

and made rickety by insatiable greed, a sadistic

hybrid of automation and a deeply human cruelty.

I was born in the wing of a Naval hospital

that’s torn down now; the people who

conceived me in the moon-foolish summer

of 1969 and parented me for decades

are dead, and I’m feeling a little adrift,

a little nationless. A little unsure of my name,

my place. As if I’d been born on the moon.

Liz Ahl is the author of A Case for Solace (2022), winner of the 2023 New Hampshire Literary Award for Poetry. Her other collections include Beating the Bounds (2017) and a number of chapbooks, the most recent of which is A Stanza is a Place to Stand, published by Seven Kitchens Press in 2023. Poems have appeared recently in Rogue Agent, Cherry Tree, and River Heron Review. She lives in New Hampshire.

ABOVE A GRAY FIELD

by Fadel Kishko

Internet photo provided by the poet of the aftermath of the school bombing.

My dear, this is not a fictional story,
But one filled with gory.
It was the bleak November,
When death couldn’t be any nearer.
To stay away from bombing’s wrath,
We sheltered in a UNRWA school’s path.
A rocket, for us, caused damnation.
From this horror, there’s no salvation.
The sky turned into red—
From the blood of the dead.
Bodies from head to toe,
Torn, with nowhere to go.
Above a gray field, all is shattered,
And people’s faces deeply battered.
With blood mixed with dust,
They lie on the ground, unjust.
A brain on the wall is fastened,
Arms with legs on the tent dispersed.
In a prone, a little girl sat,
Prostrated is her father in her sight.
A head without a body—
That was what remained of her daddy.
With fixed, white, open eyes she’s gazing.
The true shape of humanity—fading.
From his head, blood is torrential.
“Nadal!” was bleeding from his skull.
Thrown aside, with his eye bulged,
With no one to treat him—he is another victim slaughtered.
A boy leaping to survive without a hinge,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to dodge.
A shell hit Jihad’s belly, shredded his liver,
And no one is their savior.
 
“Oh God, my mother!” Abdullah screamed.
Among the bodies, we searched.
Amid them, my grandmother—with a shell in her knee.
I knew then there was nowhere to flee.
Holding her hand, I cried, “Thank God! Let’s run!
For here, we can’t anymore endure, or carry on.”
Faint was her voice: “I can’t. I am injured.”
“People are torn. Stand with me! Let’s flee!” Abdullah cried.
With her hands, she unveiled her garment.
Bloodied are her pants—we’re incapacitated.
On his shoulder, he held her.
A cart I found to move her.
In the middle, she was put.
With injured and martyrs, the cart is filled.
We tried to get her to the hospital’s gate,
But the tank rolled in—we couldn’t risk our fate.
The tank was approaching with a killing intent.
Its aim is to destroy wherever it went.
We withdrew, entered a house as a guest.
“A water, for you I plead,” that was my request.
Kind people they were—gave us what we need,
Touched us with their solicitude indeed.
Told us with fear, “In the school there is a succorer.”
Went to the school and stayed in the slaughter.
That night,
We slept in blood’s red light.
“Ow! Anyone! Come and rescue us!”
For they are amputated,
And on the ground devastated.
Above us, F-16s were roaring,
Quadcopters hovered, death adoring.
A tank appeared in the night’s pale glow,
An airstrike loomed below.
Jihad, from the shell, is screaming.
Nadal is bleeding and dying.
My grandmother is crippled.
Were you in my shoes—
What would you do?
 
Al-Fajr prayer we established.
“Martyr,” we wrote on Nadal’s chest.
Wrapped my grandmother’s knee,
In order to the south to flee.
To Nit-Salim we reached.
On the way, the dead are wrapped with red.
Burnt-out cars lined the street,
With blood’s scent rising from the driver’s seat.
Here are they.
Sitting over there.
He’s sitting over there—human like me.
The red blood that runs in his vein runs in mine.
Why does he have a weapon made to kill,
And my only right is to yell?
Armed with every weapon ever made,
Used against me—to fade.
Shrieking at a line of nearly a million,
To stop, and for the tank to move on.
Shouting while pouring his bullets,
Screaming, “Don’t worry!” after he kills.
Kidnapped—behind the tank, they are taken.
Shooting while jeeps inside are moving.
After I almost routed,
“All of you, move!” he shouted.
We reached “the safe zone.”
Again, the story was replicated.
This is not a story just ended,
But our daily life that is being repeated.

Author’s note: “Above a Gray Field” is a harrowing recollection of a fatal incident that forced me to flee south during this genocidal war—an experience I barely survived. I sought safety for myself and my family, only to realize that safety, like humanity, morality, and justice, can be illusions.

     The South of Gaza was labeled a “Safe Zone,” but the horrors I witnessed there—human organs scattered on the ground, relentless violence—continue to haunt me, even in sleep.

     This visceral poem rises from the ashes of the dead and bears witness to the injustice endured by Palestinian civilians. It reflects the daily reality where human life is undervalued, and death is treated as commonplace.

     More than a literary work, this poem is a cry, a memory, and a fragment of a violently torn life. It confronts the reader with urgent emotion and a desperate plea for humanity, exposing death as the cruel rhythm of an endless war—where victims are not only forgotten but neglected.

.

I am Fadel Kishko, a 22-year-old writer from Gaza.

FAVORITE GODDESS

by Karen Warinsky

 

Cynthia waxes, manages her money,

shops off season for the children’s clothes,
stretches the meat with casseroles,
smiles at her husband.
 
Selene wanes, 
lights small candles,
bundles the baby, the grandmother,
cocooning them in blankets woven for beauty,
hums to herself.
 
Like Hecate at the crossroads a woman waits for grain,
for water, the line winding and wide like the Nile,
life pressing against her hip,
laying gentle in her tired hand.
 
Beyond, in the pitch and quiet of space,
Artemis flies, seeking herself in beaming moonlight,
hunting a discovery for men
on a mission that will hold no answers 
for Earth’s struggling, steadfast daughters.

 
Karen Warinsky began publishing poetry in 2011 and was named as a finalist for her poem “Legacy” in the Montreal International Poetry Contest in 2013.  She has two books from Human Error Publishing: Gold in Autumn (2020) and Sunrise Ruby, (2022), both.  Her work centers on mid-life, relationships, politics, and the search for spiritual connection through nature, and she coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large.

THROUGH DESERT CLOUDS

by David Chorlton

An Ariane 5 rocket second stage deployed the James Webb Space Telescope shortly after launch on Dec. 25, 2021. It's 'humanity's last view' of the new observatory, says NASA PAO Rob Navias.

A cloud filled with shadow

floats up towards the gods

veiled in shades of cold

who look out from the mountain

and talk among themselves

about creation and energy

channeled to become this slender ridge

as the first step to infinity

and home for the coyotes

who come out every night to ask the stars

for guidance through the dark.

Word has it

 

from the hawks ascending

that a rocket has left the Earth

to go so far back in time

that all remaining to be seen

are the final ashes from

the cosmic dawn. What

a flash and what an echo

must have issued from the moment,

they reflect. And yet

 

not a single mockingbird

and no woodpeckers flew

from the crash. The day

is chilly but beautiful in how

the sheets of rain drift past

each other, and crossing

the peaks are the souls

the fates could never capture for themselves.

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix, who continues writing, painting, and keeping track of the local bird life. His newest book is Unmapped Worlds, a collection of rehabilitated poems from his files of the past.

THE POEM THAT LANDS ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE

by Janet Bowdan

Jac Zagoory Rocket Pen Holder

I forgot what I was going to ask,  

just a question that popped out of my head 

the moment I went into the kitchen, 

and Blair laughed saying I was entitled 

to a day off and maybe so 

 

but what if this is not the day 

what if this is the day I can write about Israel 

firing back on Gaza, the two women who died 

running for shelter, the military targeting Hamas 

tunnels but bringing down buildings, children 

dying, maybe this is the day I can make them stop 

killing each other if they can only stop— 

the poem that lands on Netanyahu’s breakfast 

so he has to read it, how his vow to make 

Hamas pay “a very heavy price” is a weight 

in his throat; he tries to swallow it down 

with coffee. It is not Hamas who’s paying, 

his orange juice says, his bagel with cream cheese. 

We’re all paying. Make it stop, the poem 

says before it backflips and speeds like a rocket 

to the Hamas leaders: make it stop. And it lights up 

the sky but harms no one. 

 

Janet Bowdan's poems have appeared in APR, Best American Poetry, The Rewilding Anthology, River Heron Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Making Progress came out in 2019 from Finishing Line Press. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband and son (who recently had a zoom bar mitzvah), as well as a cat and a chinchilla. 

RESPONSIBLE SPACE BEHAVIORS

by Marsha Segerberg

You can keep an eye on the re-entry of the Long March 4B at Aerospace.

“Heads Up! A Used Chinese Rocket Is Tumbling Back to Earth This Weekend. The chances of it hitting a populated area are small, but not zero. That has raised questions about how the country’s space program designs its missions.” —The New York Times, May 7, 2021

The Long March 5B is tumbling out of control. 

A 10-story, 23-ton array of hurtling

rocket junk. Uncontrolled re-entry.

Yes.

 

It’s a bus that went to a space station called Tiangong,

Chinese for Heavenly Palace.

 

Chances you could be hit are not zero, they say in the news.

Some time Saturday. Maybe Sunday.

Chicago is safe. New York City—maybe not.

 

I think it’s irresponsible, said someone from NASA.

Some people are not displaying responsible space behaviors.

said the press secretary.

 

A NASA satellite about the size of a school bus,

whammed back to earth in 2011, but only a 1-in-3,200 chance

anyone would be hurt. That’s what they calculated.

 

The Long March 5B could spread 10 tons over hundreds of miles.

Think about three pickup trucks’ worth of debris,

NASA said. Not so bad, spread out like that, right?

 

There was the Columbia, disintegrating over Texas. 

No one was hurt on the ground by the 85,000 pounds of junk. 

I wonder if that included the seven astronauts..

I wonder what their collective ashes weighed. 

 

There was the Challenger blowing apart after launch. 

Another seven astronauts. Several crew members

 are known to have survived the initial breakup

 of the spacecraft... no escape system... the impact

of the crew compartment at terminal velocity

with the ocean surface was too violent to be survivable.

You can visit the metal pieces in a museum.

 

There was Apollo 1 that didn’t even get off the ground,

so not to worry about falling mangled debris. Just

three astronauts burned up on the launch pad. 

We don’t count them as space junk. 

It was only a test.

 

They say they’re doing their best to stick ocean landings,

(except for the Long March 5B, for which there is no plan).

I wonder what the fish think.

 

Marsha Segerberg is a retired biology educator and member of COW (Community of Writers) in Phoenix, Arizona. Her poems have appeared in Chiron, Rat’s Ass Review, and Rogue Agent, among others. She lives in the Phoenix desert with her dog, Peggy.

POSTCARDS FROM MY PLACE IN LINE

by Sandra Fees

Tweeted by Apoorva Mandavilli <@apoorva_nyc> based on the “Find Your Place in the Vaccine Line” app at The New York Times.

Phase 1A

I’m a rationed portion of myself. Loungewear

and sweatpants, no bra. Yesterday I spent four

hours trawling the provider map to get in line

online. No appointments. Is this what a ration

line feels like? Except now we wait on laptops.

It’s not my turn. But it is my boyfriend’s and

my friend’s and my sister’s and there's no place

in line. Just today someone tried to steal a turn.

 

Phase 1B

That’s me, 1B. There isn’t a line—yet.

Clergy to queue up with first responders,

educators, and grocery store workers

who stock shelves and fill my trunk

with groceries. Today, the young man who

emptied the sleet-spritzed cart warned

drive carefully out there. I hope he gets

the vaccine soon. Isn’t it scarier in there?

 

Phase 1C

The CDC matrix is a scramble of phrases

like prevention of morbidity & mortality

and preservation of societal functioning.

They position them on the scales called

equity. Everyone wants to weigh in.

 

Phase 2

Dr. Fauci says by summer. I miss

the ocean. Last year I had to pay

a cancelation fee. Is it okay to wear

my royal blue bikini from last year?

 

Phase 3

This week Moderna launched a booster trial,

like a rocket. I hope the space program boosts

its rockets too, speeds us where we need to go.

 

Sandra Fees is the author of The Temporary Vase of Hands (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and served a term as Berks County, Pennsylvania, Poet Laureate (2016-2018). Her work has appeared in Sky Island Journal, Poets Reading the News, Chiron Review, and others.

DUFUR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION, MAY 29, 2020

by Penelope Scambly Schott

The NASA astronauts Douglas Hurley, left, and Robert Behnken as they made their way to the launch pad at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Fla., on Saturday. Credit: John Raoux/Associated Press via The New York Times, May 30, 2020

Speeches, music, drive-by
awarding of all 18 diplomas:
fire engines and ambulance
lead the noisy parade
through our small town.

I sit on my curb
raising my half-empty
mug of cold coffee
to personally congratulate
each gowned kid.

Two hours later at Canaveral
astronauts Bob and Doug
are rocketed into earth orbit.
Tomorrow they’ll meet up
with the space station.

Where
can our 18 graduates go
in this time of quarantine
as the local wheat is rising
into small golden capsules?


Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Recent books are House of the Cardamom Seed  and November Quilt.  Forthcoming is On Dufur Hill, a sequence of poems about a small (pop. 623) wheat-growing town in central Oregon.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED: GODDAMMIT

by George Salamon

Shafiqullah, 13, is one of seven children from an extended family wounded in the blast of a rocket left behind after a battle in Afghanistan. Credit: Jim Huylebroek for The New York Times. 

It was a cruel day, even by the standards of Afghanistan’s long war. By nightfall, four were dead, including Jalil, who had tried to save them all and died at a hospital that night. One 4-year-old girl, Marwa, lost both her twin sister, Safwa, and their mother, Brekhna, who had been nearby making dung cakes for fuel. One of Brekhna’s nieces, a 6-year-old, was also killed in the blast. Seven survivors—three brothers and four of their first cousins—were left to bear the weight of those losses, and more: Every one of them lost a leg, and two lost both. —The New York Times, June 3, 2018

Missiles fly over villages
Of houses and children.
One landed below, picked  up
By a child it exploded in a fireball of
Blood and screams,
Of corpses and severed limbs
And savaged lives.
It happened in a tiny spot
On the map, far away from
The centers of the global economy
And to people who have
No wealth to manage.
There was the usual silence before.
There will be the usual silence after.

George Salamon lives in St. Louis, MO,  where children are occasionally caught in the crossfire of gunfights.

AT CENTURY 21

by Rick Mullin

Image source: drjudywood.com


It happened. And the man in front of me

exploded straight up off the street, a mile

high. Many things seemed similarly

amplified. A woman cried as all

the contents of her briefcase scattered

over Dey Street. I assume she worked

in Tower One and would have made it in

by 9. And then the transit cruiser parked

on Broadway hit its lights and faded in-

to smoke and mirrors and a sense that mattered 

more than any rational surmise.

A shadow stream. Outrageous hip hop sneakers

rocketing. I saw the clearest skies

rain paper as a fire at the farthest reaches

closed a ring on everything that shattered.


Rick Mullin's new poetry collection is Stignatz & the User of Vicenza.

I CELEBRATE MYSELF

by Jim Gustafson

CALAIS, Maine — A local man was killed instantly Saturday when he set off a fireworks mortar tube on his head, despite efforts his friends made to stop him, state police said Sunday. —Bangor Daily News July 5, 2015. Editor's note: The file photograph is NOT that of the victim in Maine, but of someone else deserving at least a Darwin Award Honorable Mention.

with apologies to Walt Whitman

I will place a rocket on my head, in a few moments I’ll be dead.
To celebrate myself, I’ll place a rocket on my head. I’ll strike a
match, light its fuse and let the sizzle climb my face. The rocket
will explode my brain and l spread my wisdom around the place.
People will scream as every atom which once belonged to me
will now belong to them. They will drip from their bottles, stick
in their hair. They will be sick because I took the dare. And when
they return to work, the holiday past, the smoke of my own breath
shall whisper.


Jim Gustafson’s most recent book, Driving Home, was published by Aldrich Press in 2013 and is a 2013 Pushcart Prize Nominee. He holds an MFA from University of Tampa and a M. Div., from Garrett Theological Seminary. He teaches at Florida Gulf Coast University and Florida Southwestern State College.  His work has most recently appeared in Prick of the Spindle, Foliate Oak, Poetry Quarterly. He lives in Fort Myers, Florida, where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds.

RIDE AT DUSK

by Tracey Gratch

For their first event of the year, J Street Swarthmore gathered with other student organizations for a vigil in memory of the Israelis and Palestinians who lost their lives this summer. Image and caption from J Street on FaceBook, September 6, 2014.

i.m. Daniel Tragerman


A distant recurrence
brings death to the door;
hollow, the victory,
made brutal by war.

With darkness descending
and cars rushing past
I pedal, ascending,
as images flash

chiaroscuro through trees
now fading to gray;
there's one that remains
at the end of the day --

His soul will be borne
in a scrapbook of hope;
a mother will mourn,
sustaining the trope.

 Chickatawbut Hill looms;
 I'm going for broke.


Author’s note: This poem came while biking through the Blue Hills in Milton, MA at dusk, shortly after reading the story of the death of Daniel Tragerman, the 4-year-old Israeli boy who was killed in his home on August 22 by shrapnel from a mortar shell fired from Gaza.


Tracey Gratch lives in Quincy, MA with her husband and their four children. Her poems have appeared in various and sundry publications including, Mezzo Cammin, The Literary Bohemian, The Flea, Annals of Internal Medicine, Boston Literary Magazine, The New Verse News and The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine. Her poem, "Strong Woman" is included in the American College of Physicians, On Being A Doctor, Volume 4.