FOR MINNEAPOLIS

by Ruth Lehrer

They don’t tell you in the morning
you will die by noon 
driving in your car
walking on the street 
 
after you are gone
you see a picture of the gun
flesh as good as ashes
blood as good as painted pain 
 
But in that morning you just know
yesterday your neighbor was brave
so today you must be too
The boundary between trust and fear
torn open
 
We are all ash
We are all brave. 

Ruth Lehrer is a sign language interpreter and Pushcart-nominated poet living in western Massachusetts. She is the author of the young adult novel Being Fishkill. 

SWITCH

by Arlene Weiner

Source: Wikimedia Commons

For more than a decade, the West has faced off against the East again in what was widely called a new cold war. But with President Trump back in office, America is giving the impression that it could be switching sides. —The New York Times, February 18, 2025

The boys thought it would be fun
to throw the switch, watch trains
derail. It would be rich
to watch passengers tumble out,
scream. Maybe some would be naked.
 
There were deaths. The feral boys
didn’t care. Order and law
were boring. Boys would be boys
making noise, making money,
thinking it funny to upset sacred cows.
 
Watch it on Twitch, a sport
putting people through the woodchipper
the boys’ skipper, a double dipper, boasted,
who boosted his gaming scores.
Nobody came to stop the boys. 
 
Some men would be boys, breaking trust,
ghosting friends, tribal, looting, bribing,
gleeful masculine energy in a red hat. 

Arlene Weiner lives in Pittsburgh, where she is active in community poetry groups. Ragged Sky Press has published three collections of her poetry, most recently More (2022).

ANTHROPOPHOBIA

by Daniel Lurie

More than a week after four University of Idaho students were stabbed to death in a house near campus, the police chief leading the investigation said on Sunday that the police had not been able to answer many of the crime’s most pressing questions, such as how the victims’ roommates were not awakened during the overnight killings or where the killer might be now. The few details that have been uncovered have only deepened the mystery of a crime that has unnerved students and residents in the college town of Moscow, Idaho, and left victims’ families trying to help piece together what happened. Photo: Friends and community members celebrated the victims’ lives during a candlelight vigil in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, on Wednesday. Rajah Bose for The New York Times, November 21, 2022

Credi

You never trusted easy/when you first got here/every night you’d push a couch/ 
in front of the door/a dark cloud hangs/over an emptying/Moscow like quarantine/
you haven’t slept in 3 days/the faces of the 4 victims/a constant rolodex/
a handful of years younger than you/same age as your students/you hope/
they get home/after you canceled classes/you have nowhere else/to go/
over a phone call/your mother tells you to buy wood/for the ground floor windows/
all the stores are sold out/your friend Beck was struck/while on her bike/months ago/
drivers still floored it through town/this moment is a cardinal/ 
in a field of snow/you haven’t been there/but you know there’s a bouquet/
resting against a stone slab/an unrested abode/wrapped in yellow/
police tape/no one deserves to lose/their lives/the suspect still/
at large/fills every corner/every room/the eyes you won’t meet/
on the street/the shadow outside/your loved ones/homes/

Daniel Lurie is a Jewish, rural writer from Roundup, Montana. He attended Montana State University Billings, where he received his bachelor’s degree in Organizational Communications. He is currently in his second year at the University of Idaho, pursuing an MFA in poetry. Daniel is passionate about the environment, human rights, rural life, and conceptualizing grief. He is the Poetry Editor for Fugue. His work has appeared in The Palouse Review, FeverDream, The Rook, Sidewalk Poetry, and most recently in Moscow’s Third Street Gallery. 

THINKING ABOUT LOVE DURING COVID AND COUPS

by Susan Vespoli

I’ve been thinking about the Hopi Prophecy as told to me

by a friend, how we would find ourselves in a rushing river,

our body a soggy vessel careening toward the unknown. And the Hopi 

instruction was to notice who traveled beside us, not to flail 

or cling to the shore, but to trust the water. I’ve been thinking 

about the deep bass voice and compelling smell of an armpit, a man 

who sang lyrics into my ear, leaned around me as I washed a pan, 

crooned, I just can’t live without you, sister golden hair surprise, 

how he vanished with that torso he’d spooned around me, 

strapped into his own life vest, his SUV growing smaller 

as it exited the street in front of my house where I’ve stayed 

mostly alone since March, and how the ones who’ve held 

my hand and head above water have done so through Zoom

screens or contained in chiweenie fur or while flouncing 

around the living room in a size 6x little girl’s net skirt. How comfort 

has come via iPhones on speaker, text boxes, Words with Friends 

app chats, or from the masked employees at Jiffy Lube, 

a uniformed ballet of them who unscrew, drain, pour fluid, 

bow, you’re welcome, smile with eyes, say, you’re okay now,

reset the Need Maintenance light that flashed on my dash.

Susan Vespoli has been holed for almost a year in Phoenix, where she's written poetry, led writing circles on Zoom for writers.com, ridden her bike, and walked her dogs. Her work has been published in The New Verse News, Rattle, Nasty Women Poets Anthology, Mom Egg Review, Nailed Magazine, and others.

FIRST KISS

by Judy Rowe Michaels

Though I could barely part my lips, numb
in a starry winter night, and our breaths
nearly froze before they could rise,
                                                        we breathed
faster. Inside your mouth it was safe and warm,
exploratory, we could taste, we could trust
the invitations      handles, switches, faucets, keys.

So many years of kissing
easy as breath.
                         No lethal droplets in the air     on my tongue
can you remember
                              when it felt like time was on our side?

Judy Rowe Michaels is a poet in the schools for the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation and gives poetry workshops for teachers around the country. A member of the women's poetry critique and performance group Cool Women, she has published four poetry collections, including Reviewing the Skull (WordTech Editions), The Forest of Wild Hands (University Press of Florida), and a chapbook, Ghost Notes (Finishing Line Press) as well as three books on teaching writing. She has received residencies from Banff Centre for the Arts, Hedgebrook, and the MacDowell Colony. A six-time cancer patient, Michaels gives talks on ovarian cancer at NJ and NYC medical schools for the national program Survivors Teaching Students.

EYES ABOVE THE MASK

by Joan Colby

Postal workers at the Bemus Point NY Post Office behind a new partition, designed to keep customers and staff safe during the coronavirus pandemic. Photo by Jim Wehrfritz for the Post Journal (Jamestown NY).

We eye each other warily
Above our masks
Keeping our social distance.

Is this the one, this guy in the tan jacket,
This woman holding a package in gloved hands,
This older man limping with a cane,
This teenager whose mask keeps slipping?

This one? The super spreader of a virus
Unknown to its carrier, asymptomatic.
The one whose contaminated breath
Floats a particle toward us.
Who can we trust? The employee
At the post office desk behind a plastic shield,
The stockers in the grocery aisle unloading cases
Of gingerale or flavored tea.

We hurry in and out of wherever
People gather, even though they obey
The taped lines—six feet? It’s said the virus
Can ride the airways for hours or days
Or months or years, who knows?

Everything we’re told is uncertain,
Hopeful, bold or despairing.
We hasten away from those
Who might somehow touch us.


Joan Colby’s Selected  Poems received the 2013 FutureCycle Prize, and Ribcage was awarded the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. Her recent books include Carnival from FutureCycle Press, The Seven Heavenly Virtues from Kelsay Books and Her Heartsongs from Presa Press. Her latest book is Joyriding to Nightfall from FutureCycle Press.

THE IMMIGRANT BOY'S LAMENT

“President Donald T***p wants America to know that his plans to remove government officials deemed insufficiently loyal to him is actually for the country’s own good.” 

—Talking Points Memo, February 25, 2020

Photograph by Oleg Ver.

George Salamon entered the USA as a 13-year-old immigrant in 1948, after a decade as a refugee from Austria in Switzerland during World War Two. The first play he saw, in early 1949, was Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire.

WHEN WORDS BECOME WEAPONS

by Jen Schneider

Kevin Euceda, now 19 years old, an asylum-seeker from Honduras, has an emotional moment in December 2019, after some 900 days in detention at three detention centers. After hearing statements he made to counselors—that he thought were confidential—read back to him at hearings, the traumatized teenager chooses his words more carefully now. (Michael S. Williamson photo for "Trust and Consequences" by Hannah Dreier, The Washington Post, February 15, 2020)

In the darkness of the night and the safety of artificial lights, I shared my story. 

The hundreds of miles walked and waters crossed. Go ahead. Swim. 

I spoke of piles of memories, papers, lost lives, broken bodies, missing books, 

and torn clothing—including the cloth worn by my deceased cousin and sewn 

by the handiwork of my deceased mother’s pale, scarred hands—left behind. 

My calloused foot kissed the stone, and I fell. Hard.

Go ahead. Rise. Trusting the hands that caught, then bolstered, me, I complied. 

My words poured, pooled, and puddled around my person. Your head bobbed, 

a decoy, and encouraged me to swim to safety. Go ahead. Jump. A life vest, 

withs arm outstretched and encouraging, like the V that marks my forehead and maps 

my past - my own flesh and blood—I failed to realize I was in the deep end. 

Always have been. You, too. My lifelong fear of water consumed me, but I swam 

at your urging. Go ahead. Speak. Your superiors soaked my blood—yours, too—

and my language in a tissue of legal loopholes. Strangers twisted the rag, heavy 

with tales of my younger self, a person I neither know nor remember—Go ahead. Try.

—and dropped it in my lap. It stank. Still does.

The weight of my words lives on like bait and lure in deceptively choppy waters 

with a strong undercurrent. Go ahead. Float. Seeking a home base, safe land, in a sea 

that never calms. My words now a weapon, sharper than any before used, 

with finely seared edges and teeth that bite. Piranhas tear my younger flesh and chew 

my words at every meal, meeting, and moment. Go ahead. Pierce.

I lie before you. Empty. Broken. Alone.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

TRUMPTY DUMPTY

by Catherine McGuire





Trumpty Dumpty sat on his wall,
Trumpty Dumpty looked on toward the fall.
“I’ve won their horse race, I’ve got my own men—
I’ll make America greatest again.”

Cheered by a racist, misogynist rabble,
Trumpty Dumpty struts and he babbles—
“It’s gonna be HUGE, cause everyone loves me.
I own the party; there’s no one above me.”

In the hallways of power, the leaders are shocked—
this kind of revolt should be easily blocked,
and yet Trump has smashed the establishment boys;
he can stoop even lower than the worst red state ploys.

And smug pundits claiming, “It could not happen here”
choke on their words and cry in their beers,
“It’s the death of conservatism! Horror of horrors!
If Trump becomes president, there’ll be no tomorrow!”

So now Trumpty Dumpty wants to be crowned;
wants the Bushes to grovel, Paul Ryan to bow down.
Though he thinks he has won this political bet,
Trumpty Dumpty may find elephants never forget.

And Trumpty Dumpty will find in the race,
most voters require at least some social grace.
Small-hand obsessions and childish tweets
show the orangest candidate can’t take the heat.

While the world looks in horror, while the world holds its breath,
the voters will choose if we pull back from the death
of what makes America historically best—
patience and kindness, tolerance, respect.

But that’s not up to Trumpty; that job’s up to us!
Enough with the rhetoric—it’s time to discuss
where we’re going with neighbors, we can and we will
back away from the hatred and turn down the shrill.

Find your opposite number, have a coffee or beer—
chat for an hour, unlearn your fear.
We live here together, and together must work
to uncover and vanquish the hatred that lurks

where people feeling unheard and under attack
blame their lost future on the Latin, the Black—
don’t put your trust in a strange orange man;
let’s bring our country together again.

Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep concern for ecology and our planet's future. Her first full length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century, will be published in October 2016 by FutureCycle Press.