THE BROAD SIDE OF BARNS

by DJ Benhaim

Grey represents 10,000 city-owned vacant lots in Chicago. Graphic from ChiBlockBuilder.

There are over 40,000 vacant lots throughout Chicago. The majority of these lots are found in predominantly Black neighborhoods on the South and West sides, largely due to long-term discrimination and disinvestment from public and private entities. Neighborhoods without investment struggle to maintain housing demand, which can lead to population loss, property demolition and deterioration, and eventually, abundant vacant land. A large concentration of vacant land can have negative effects on the mental and physical health of residents. Vacant land can also depress nearby property values and correlate to increased crime, leading to further disinvestment. —Institute for Housing Studies at DePaul University, April 24, 2025

no one builds barns any more—
only scaffolding, condos,
liquor stores with bulletproof windows
& a prayer room in the back.
wasps had nested up in the rafters
& some uncle worked
where the Walmart stands now.
the soil reddened like scraped knuckles
his father broke with a mule
named Gospel—
worked the rows in prayer
before the yield was taxed out.

|| past is a ledger
but the ink runs. ||

broad side of what?
a body? a billboard?
surfaces now are for selling
what's already been taken.

"used to be Black people out here,"
man in line says,
hocking lone squares for a buck
like that's still a thing.

|| names are dropped
like pins on surveys,
& nobody charts the grief. ||

nana's house = "distressed property"
family land = "redevelopment zone"
heirloom = "liability"
"urban blight" = Black bodies by water

map calls it 'Cal City' now—
we just called it home.
the pecan tree still falls like it used to,
even if they paved around it.

we still claim it's ours
but it's up for sale online—
w/ renderings,
w/ dog parks,
w/ Whole Foods
where the funeral home used to be.
the old deeds hand-written,
passed trembling hand to hand
like hymnals.
now: PDFs, escrow, and computer renderings
of what was.

the city annexed the story.
sold it by the bulk.
a block is 400K now
if you squint
& act like you don't see the runoff,
old promises like mildew
thickening the air.

hands once set in earth
now glide against colored screens—
waiting for Lyft pings,
standing where squash used to grow.

"heritage district" they say—
but only the picket fence remains.
(we had none. never.)

child asks
“wasn’t there a porch here?”
nodding to the concrete slab
where the rocking chair used to squeak.
back when, auntie shell'd peas
in metal bowls on Sunday—
called bingo numbers
like prophecy.

corner now has a mural—
Black woman with afro + fist + sunflowers.
financed by real estate.
our image used
as seasoning.

|| tell me again
who gets pride? ||

story signs on phone poles.
deeds lost to taxes.
a cousin got arrested
and was late for the signing.
a brother was sold low,
"figured they'd take it anyway."

a shoebox full of pictures, water-stained—
someone's arm thrown over a mule,
a baby born of loss
grasping okra
like gold.

we once built fences—
not to keep people out,
but to mark what we meant.

|| crevice in the cement
sweetgrass still grows through. ||

the barn saw baptisms in washtubs,
hog butchering,
first kisses behind feed sacks—
it never forgot the names
whispered in its beams.

barns don't scream
they sag.
they rust like facts—
slow, uncaring
until someone calls it aesthetic
& puts up string lights
for the engagement shoot.

tagged as "roots"
but never allowed to root.

&
here
the wind knows
whose sweat made this space possible—
even if the deeds don't.

DJ Benhaim is an emerging poet from Chicago, IL whose obsession with poetry began at the age of eleven. Additional works can be seen in African Writer Magazine. Connect with him on Facebook @ DJ Benhaim.

BETTING AGAINST THE HOUSE

by Rick Ehling

Almost overnight an entire 

country reeks of three AM 

in Las Vegas’ seediest casino

Few truly smiling, everything feigned

All that fatigued desperation

Smoke and sweat settling heavy 

in dayless, temperature controlled space

Coin cups and wallets emptier

Perhaps a bit drunk  Bleary eyed 

Certainly sleepy  Blinking, 

yawning  Or were those sighs

Remembering prior buffet

A feathered line of showgirls

Well past joy’s equinox 

This crash after faux sugar 

Clinks and flashes finally 

overwhelming  Triggering 

a headache or tinnitus  Most 

clinging to whatever chance 

they no longer believe in

Many wishing they counted cards

Rick Ehling is a physician living in the SF Bay Area, working in what was once called a “safety net clinic.” He writes most mornings when he can’t sleep; this started after a family illness but has continued for much of the last decade.

HEAT WAVE

by Richard Schiffman

Heat Wave painting by Ralph White

If sweat were gold, I’ve lost millions. 

If hell were cold, I’d be in heaven.

If heat were meat, I’d feed the world.

If hot were smart, this day’s a bloody genius.

Robin redbreasts with lolling tongues 

are begging for the spare change of rain. 

Today even the fire ants are panting like puppies. 

The dog days of summer, they whimper, they drool.

Pigeons in heat spontaneously combusting,

bridges diving like ducks into rivers, 

green leaves boiling and bubbling from trees, 

trees hawking their shade to the highest bidder.

Still, there is something in me that loves a flame. 

That burns baby burns complacency’s ghetto.

Whose body is grease for its very own pyre.

Whose soul is on fire like a summer in Georgia.

Some seasons are mild, some seasons are fiery

If June kissed the moon, the moon would go loony.

If July were a stud, every mare would come screaming.

When mid-August simmers, the whole world is soup. 

Today only mad dogs and Englishmen are strolling.

And possibly some poets and wandering monks.

Fervid souls, assorted fools. We know who we are.

We know what we’re up to.

Richard Schiffman, based in New York City, is an environmental reporter, poet, and author of two biographies. His poems have appeared on the BBC and on NPR as well as in the Alaska Quarterly, the New Ohio Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The New York Times, Writer’s Almanac, This American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily, and other publications. His first poetry collection What the Dust Doesn't Know was published in 2017 by Salmon Poetry.

SWEAT IS NO LONGER THE COIN OF THE LAND

by George Salamon

"Of all the days celebrated for one cause or another, there is not one which stands so conspicuously for the social advancement of the common people as the first Monday in September," Samuel Gompers, President of the American Federation of Labor, The New York Times, September 4, 1910


"While you're planning that Labor Day weekend family cookout or a last minute getaway to one of the world's best food cities, we're gearing up for some serious savings in the form of Labor Day 2018 sales," in "All Of the Labor Day 2018 Sales You Need To Know About," The Huffington Post, August 24, 2018


Who still loves ya, underpaid
Working stiffs of America?
Laboring on  assembly lines,
In the streets and sewers of cities,
In fields on farms, scrubbing
Hospital floors and cleaning
Offices in the towers of wealth.
You've been abandoned and deceived,
Promises were broken, leaving your
Hopes and expectations unrealized.
Sweat is no longer the coin of the land.
Fat cats who control the price at which
Your labor is bought and sold
Turned you into losers in
The marketplace they own.
Once celebrated as the backbone of
America, as heirs to Rosie the Riveter
And Joe Lunchpail, you've been
Dehumanized and deplored.
The bargain you made for that
Shot at the American Dream
Was shredded, equal opportunity for all
Became an unmentionable in the
Corridors of power and at the
Spectacle theater of the ballot box.
Things could be different, but you
Struggle to imagine a future that is
Different from what is.
Let's enlist in the task of
Building a people's democracy,
Inspired by a many-splendored Dream
Bigger than the one for the self and the few.


George Salamon lives and writes in St. Louis, MO. once a strong union city.

RESISTANCE

by Kim Drew Wright

The lady beside me drips
drops from the bridge of her nose,
runnels from her forehead

A lithe blond in the back makes
it look easy, head pressed to mat
bending as told

Sweat collects in towels, clothes
I am a bottomless pit
of fluid, the rain water of continents spill

out of me, one bead at a time,
like the first burst of rain in the Garden
of Eden. I hear how it lands on a leaf,

how the apples glisten.


Kim Drew Wright has fiction and poetry in numerous journals. The Strangeness of Men, her debut collection of short fiction and prose poems won both a Silver IPPY and Finalist in USA Best Book Awards. She is a human rights activist and lives in Richmond, Virginia with her husband and three children.

A MATCHING WIN

by Martha Landman


            Such a deliberate sadist, the man thought.
                        -- Kailash Srinivasan

Image source: Anorak

15 tennis rackets, like swords,
at swift speed surpass compassion

30 experienced vampire-like feet
covertly manoeuvre winning stunts

40 long muscled arms murderously
shoot ball after ball towards triumph

Loveless desire battle-dance for hours
stealing advantage from the opponent

They volley they serve they net they score
spinning the deuced crowd for justice

in key moments their sweaty smiles
not letting up the sadism till the final score.
 

Martha Landman is a South African-born Australian poet and a psychologist residing in tropical Queensland.  She has published on- and off-line and loves everything reading and writing.