A VALENTINE FOR MINNEAPOLIS

by Lisa Shulman

 

I love the crunch of your boots in the icy streets,

the rhythmic beat of your mittened hands,

the steam of your breath and the heat of your words 

in this brutal cold and ice-clapped world.

I love the chapped red of your cheeks, your dripping nose

the ice crystals on your eyebrows, your hair,

as you carry signs and bags of food and offer your arm

to that woman on the ground.

I love the street medics with their packs,

the rolling neighborhood patrols,

and the cafes open for free soup and coffee.

I love your cousins in Chicago, Portland, L.A.

I love the way you bang on drums, on cans and dumpsters,

your raucous all-night singing,

your harmonies as you kneel on frozen sidewalks,

your whistles and car horns.

I love your walking school buses,

your inflatable frogs, and knit red hats.

I love the warm and flowing river of your bodies

pouring through your city—

blood pulsing through its veins.

I love your courage that ignites our own,

fire melting ice.

I love your heart.

 

 

Lisa Shulman is a poet, children’s book author, and teacher. Her poetry has appeared in Sheila-na-gig, About Place, Anacapa Review, Inkfish, Kitchen Table Quarterly, New Verse News, and elsewhere. Her new chapbook is Fragile Bones, Fierce Heart. A Pushcart nominee, Lisa teaches poetry with California Poets in the Schools, and workshops for women in recovery.

WHISTLE CHOIR

by Jennifer Clark

 Bde Maka Ska, January 31, 2026

Whistles once nesting in our throats like drowsy wrens

now fly out of their warm homes and hatch bright noises,

cracking the white glaze of ice creeping over this cold, hard land.

A whistle is a toy, is a shield, is a song of resistance 

rising above this raucous world bursting with whiny snowblowers,

chirping dishwashers, the damp sound of fear.

Whistles sway from necks and perch on the edge of lips

forming o no you don’ts. Galloping through towns,

whistlers on their midnight rides emit the same sharp staccato cry: 

Danger is coming. We love you, neighbors. Run. Do not come outside.

Some will cover their genteel ears and complain of the shrilling.

Do not grow disheartened.

Remember: you don’t need everybody.

When you grow weary, march onto the frozen skin

of Bde Maka Ska where deep below largemouth bass,

walleyes, and muskies await April’s orders.

As wind howls, stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbors and form

an SOS sounding the alarm. As any good referee will tell you,

until the game is over, don’t set down your whistles.

Jennifer Clark’s fourth poetry collection, Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions, was recently released by Unsolicited Press. Clark is also the author of three more books, including a memoir, Kissing the World Goodbye, which blends family stories with recipes and was named a top-selling book of 2022 by Unsolicited Press. You can find her at writingwithoutanet.substack.com where she writes about writing, poetry, books, and gives out free magnets to her cartoon contest winners.

TO THE REPUBLIC

by Athena Kildegaard

It is hard, right now, to think

of America, my country, it no longer
holds together inside its borders. 
Four decades ago, every school day, 
I asked one of the twelve-year-olds
in my charge to lead us in the Pledge
of Allegiance. It was the law, this recital.
As good a way as any, I thought, to begin.
Words, words, slippery as jello cubes,
hardly join, now, to anything real.
My heart beats, my hand firms itself
to my chest—this friction, this viva—
but my tongue dare not lift, my lips
not open, my body not burst
with air, with light. America, where
have you gone?

You are in Minneapolis,
America, handing out scarves and hats,
standing beside your neighbors, lifting
whistles to your lips because your lips
have power, your breath has power,
you are teaching us how to be Americans.

Athena Kildegaard is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Prairie Midden (Tinderbox Editions), winner of the WILLA Literary Award. 

OUT OF SERVICE

by Jan Steckel

Ghost cars with their lights still on, 
radios blaring, windows shattered,
litter the streets. It's like the rapture, 
drivers disappeared. Alex Pretti's
beautiful baritone talks about service,
sacrifice, freedom that isn't free.
He's reciting his own epitaph,
just doesn't know it yet.
Boy Scout, choir boy, runner, biker, 
named his dog Joule after a unit of energy.
Someone needs to immortalize him
in a song, like Joe Hill. I'm tired
of snuff videos featuring our best
and brightest. Bone-weary
of tinpot dictators, bantam Nazis 
in custom greatcoats. Alex was a lover
who was loved, cared for people,
made them laugh. Now he's meat.
The pathologist will crack his chest,
weigh his heart, find it lighter 
than a feather. Joe Hill tells Joule,
"Hear that? He's coming."
All the ghost cars flash their lights
in time to the whistles and shots.

Ghosts and Oceans, Jan Steckel's latest book, is a collection of short fiction. Her poetry book The Horizontal Poet won a Lambda Literary Award. Her books Like Flesh Covers Bone, Mixing Tracks, and The Underwater Hospital also won awards.

DISRESPECTED

by Alan Catlin

For Renee Nicole Good

We came with whistles
and they came with guns.
If you see something,
say something,
blow your whistles
take pictures of malefactors.

Men with masks and guns
used to be called outlaws,
the bad guys.
Apparently, they still are.

“You should see the people
they are hiring now.
Background checks are
a thing of the past.”

We don’t need to see
the new hires, we’ve seen
what they old ones will do.

“I’m not mad at you, dude.”
are famous last words now.

The president says it’s her
own fault she was killed,
“She disrespected a federal
officer.”

Seriously.

There will be no investigation.

Alan Catlin is the poetry and reviews editor of Misfitmagazine.net. His next full-length book of poetry is Still Life with Apocalypse from Shelia Na Gig Editions.