LETHALITY

by Nan Meneely

His father taught him how to enclose a spider
so gently in tissues he can carry it live from his room
to a better place outdoors.
 
He grieves when a chipmunk lies mid-road, 
as exquisite as alive, forepaws stretched 
toward the brambly green safety ahead.
 
Knowing he might be too soft, he signs
with the Army to muscle up. But he didn’t bargain
for lethal, a word the recruiters never said.
 
He’s as certain of this as anything:
if he killed those named his enemies—
Venezuelans in fishing boats oceans away,
 
brown men working shop floor or field for minimum wage,
protesters armed with sandwiches shouting truth
to power, Somali immigrants fleeing hate—
 
he would kill the important part of himself,
the part he would fight for in anyone else.

Author's Note: This matter matters to me. My father, a doctor with the 10th Mountain Division in WWII, joined up enthusiastically but came home with a hatred of war and what we now know as PTSD. Eventually he killed himself. So Hegseth's lethality can be lethal in too many ways. 

Nan Meneely’s first book Letter from Italy, 1944 (Antrim House) was noted by the Hartford Courant as one of thirteen important books by Connecticut writers in 2013. It provided the libretto for an oratorio of the same name, composed by Sarah Meneely-Kyder and performed twice by Connecticut choruses and symphony orchestras. Her second book Simple Absence (Antrim House) was nominated for The National Book Award and placed as a grand prize finalist in The Next Generation Indie Awards and the 2021 Eric Hoffer Award. She has been published and rejected by The New Verse News.

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet

“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.

Joy has deep, soft texture these days,

like going barefoot on a carpet so lush

you almost feel you’re walking on air.

Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,

 

no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air

passing through spring leaves. Its color

is the wash of a water-color painting—

nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish

 

but how can I feel other when—as I write—

all whom I love are healthy and those dearest

I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—

and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter

 

and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter

hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver

of Covid concern causes pause until—

like warm sun on my face in winter—

 

time dissolves into the eternity of now

and I breathe in the joy of the moment.

 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.