Rachel Becker
Slouching Towards

The slub of the rough beast,
its heavy lurching,
rough creeping,
sick sagging skin.
Isn’t hate,
isn’t the upturned headstone
or branded arm-banded
skinhead kid.

Instead, fleeting, empty
hollow holding.
Horses clod their hooves
on damp pavement,
sound ground.
We listen and yawn,
plant petunias.

Inside, a sense of nothing.
Just wait. How bad can it be?
It won’t last. And then,
the slow slide into
the yawning horror.
Papers please.

We knew it was coming.
We did nothing.
All around, the rain fell,
pelleting the ground.
Around us, a violet stench
of violence. We held our noses.

Inside, a
slow turning.
The horses keep pace.
Underfoot, the tangle
of hooves, squashed,
squelched earth.

Rachel Becker teaches English and Creative Writing at Newton South High School. Her work has appeared in The Exquisite Corpse (2001, ed. Codrescu); the Notes from Underground Anthology (2011, ed Michelle Davidson Argyle), and Nine Lives: A Life in 10 Minutes Anthology (2016, ed. Valley Haggard). She lives in Boston.

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Jon D. Lee
He Couldn’t Stop Himself

idiopathy (noun): the spontaneous occurrence
of a disease with unknown causes
or mechanisms, as in bone resorption,
or ligamentous ossification,
or the calcification of infantile arteriae;
from the Ancient Greek idios, meaning
own, personal, distinct, and pathos, meaning
suffering, thus literally a disease
of its own kind, or perhaps one’s personal
suffering; in layman’s terms, a condition
wherein the body begins to tear down
the very structures that keep that body
alive. See also: war, politics, poetry.

Jon D. Lee is the author of three books, including An Epidemic of Rumors: How Stories Shape Our Perceptions of Disease, and These Around Us. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Connecticut River Review, Oregon Literary Review, Clover, and Hobble Creek Review, as well as in the anthology Follow The Thread. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Lesley University, and a PhD in Folklore. Lee teaches at Suffolk University and Stonehill College, and spends his spare time with his wife and children.

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Samaria Outlaw
A Letter for Home

I NEVER FOUND MISSISSIPPI TO BE A BEAUTIFUL PLACE. MY WORLD ONLY CONSISTED OF WHAT I HAD BEEN EXPOSED TO; I HAD NO IDEA OF HOW VAST LIFE COULD BE. ALL I SAW WAS BLACK MEN AND WOMEN STRUGGLING TO MAKE ENDS MEET. LIVING IN APARTMENTS THAT MADE US CLOSER THAN NEIGHBORS, WE WERE CELL MATES.
AND THAT WAS NORMAL…

ON THE SCHOOL BUS, WHEN WE WOULD DRIVE THROUGH THE NICE NEIGHBORHOODS, I WOULD IMAGINE; WHAT IF ME AND MY FAMILY HAD ONE. A TWO STORY MANSION, A HOME WITH A FRONT PORCH AND A BACK YARD TO PLAY IN. BACK THEN, HAVING A HOME WAS THE WORK OF FICTION AND SINCE I WAS REAL, THINKING THAT WE WOULD EVER OWN ONE WAS UNREALISTIC.
AND THAT WAS NORMAL…

I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH KIDS WHO DIDN’T HAVE FRESH SHIRTS ON THEIR SHOULDERS, DIRT STAINS ON THEIR SLACKS. ME AND A COUPLE OF PEOPLE I KNEW, ROCKED THE SAME PAIR OF SHOES FROM THE FIRST DAY OF CLASS; TILL THE END OF SUMMER SCHOOL. 30 HEADS TO A CLASSROOM, WE ALL BECAME INVISIBLE, LONG BEFORE WE HAD THE CHANCE TO BECOME INDIVIDUALS. HELP NEVER CAME WE DIDN’T HAVE SUPER HEROS. TESTS SCORED US THE FACE OF VILLAINS; WHEN WE WERE JUST CHILDREN, STARVING FOR ATTENTION. WHEN OUR PLEAS GOT DROWNED OUT BY THE GROWLS IN OUR GUTS; WHEN LUNCH WAS THE LAST MEAL OF THE DAY FOR MOST OF US. BUT YOU COULD HEAR CLEARLY, A PIN DROP IN THE EMPTY MINDS; STUDENTS GONE UNEDUCATED, HUNDREDS TOO MANY AT A TIME.
AND THAT WAS NORMAL…

ALL THESE THINGS AS COMMON AS MISSISSIPPI RAIN ON A HOT SUMMER DAY. CLOUD COVER AS THICK, AS A FAMILY SECRETE. A CYCLE CONTINUED, A YOUNG DAUGHTER GIVING BIRTH FAR TOO SOON. SAME AS HER MOTHER; AS ACCEPTED A DAD WHO FAILED TO BECOME A FATHER. LIKE WATCHING PARENTS COME HOME TIRED FROM WORK; WORKED SO HARD THAT THEIR SOUL GOT WASHED AWAY WITH THE MISSISSIPPI DIRT. OLD MEN SAT UNDER TREES DRINKING LIQUOR, UNCHANGED, LIKE THEIR FEET WAS ROOTED TO THE MISSISSIPPI EARTH. HUMIDITY PRESSED, SMOTHERING OUR MINDS, SO THAT WE COULDN’T THINK OUR WAY OUT FROM OPPRESSION. OPPORTUNITY WAS HARD TO SEE, WHEN THE AIR GOT THICK AND IT BECAME HARD TO BREATH. CHOKING FROM THAT MISSISSIPPI GRIP THAT WOULDN’T ALLOW US TO LEAVE.
AND THAT WAS NORMAL…

BUT NOW, WHEN I GO BACK, I CAN SEE THE BEAUTIFUL MAGNOLIAS, THE MASSIVE LAKES, THE BOATS AND THE JET SKIS. MANSIONS BUILT FOR GODS THAT I WAS NEVER SUPPOSE TO KNOW EXISTED; NOT A LITTLE BLACK GIRL DESTINED TO GET STUCK IN THE CRACKS OF THE SYSTEM. HOW NICE IT SHOULD’VE BEEN, HAD I BEEN BORN THE RIGHT COLOR, NOT RAISED IN THE STRUGGLE. GETTING PENALIZED AS IF I HAD A CHOICE; TO SAY WHETHER OR NOT I WANTED TO HAVE AN UNHEARD VOICE. ODD, THAT IT TOOK ME LEAVING HOME; FREEING MYSELF FROM THE CHAINS FROM WHICH I WAS BORN. FREEDOM ALLOWED THE EXPANSION OF PERCEPTIONS. THE WISDOM TO KNOW THE LINK BETWEEN A CURSE AND A BLESSING. THE STRUGGLE WAS THE CURSE THE PATH MADE ME STRONGER. TURMOIL BUT UNBROKEN; A MISSISSIPPI QUEEN SLOWLY UNFOLDING. THE BLESSING IS THAT I FOUND PEACE WITH KNOWLEDGE. KNOWING THAT SOMEHOW, PEOPLE BUILD LIVES ON A HOMELAND THAT REMAINS A BATTLEGROUND. FOREVER, THAT WILL BE THE BEAUTY AMONG US, MISSISSIPPI SURVIVORS.

Samaria Outlaw writes: My name is Samaria Outlaw, I’m from Mississippi. I spend a lot of time to myself, drawing, writing, and imagining. I love mixing different styles of art, different mediums. I try to re-create pivotal moments in life through my work; in hopes, that someone might find themselves, or perhaps, I might find me.

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Elizabeth Kirkpatrick Vrenios
Mis-Direction Play

Erasure Poem: Children’s nursery rhyme: This Old Man and excerpt from Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi

Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios is the author of the chapbook Special Delivery (Yellow Chair Press, 2016). Her poetry has appeared in Hollins Critic, Kentucky Review, Form Quarterly, Scissors and Spackle, Folliate Oak, The Binnacle, Poeming Pidgeon Unsplendid and The Edison Review. Her prize-winning chapbook, She is a Professor Emerita from American University, and has spent most of her life performing as a singing artist across Europe and the United States. She lives in Bethesda, Maryland.

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Kathryn Smith
To Whomever is Managing the Crisis

The hens pluck out their feathers,
line a nest for invisible chicks.
Parasites infest. Microscopic. The sea
once carried the diatoms I sprinkle
on the ant hill. I commit this death.
Their bodies desiccate and writhe.
Creatures all. I say “kombucha”
as a mild epithet or a substitute
for Gesundheit. It takes mounds
of microscopic bodies before
they’re made visible. Even
an invisible brood needs protecting,
puffed breast and spread wings.
Like a shield. Invisible does not mean
nonexistent. My own nest
is made of paper. Chew it up
and spit it out. A cartoon
infographic of bombs.
Kombucha. Kaboom. Awash,
like the sea teeming with diatoms.
Nor does visible mean to exist.
Before they were dust. Ashes to. God
bless you or save us. God save
the ant queen. No eggs but larvae.
The hens eat sawdust. If you breathe it,
this earth will cut your lungs.

Kathryn Smith is the author of Book of Exodus (Scablands Books, 2017). Her poems have appeared in such publications as Redivider, Mid-American Review, Bellingham Review, Carve Magazine, Southern Indiana Review, and Rock & Sling. She lives is Spokane, WA, and is the recipient of a grant from the Spokane Arts Fund.

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I.S. Jones
Night Letter

Every dream I have of you ends with your beheading. I grasp my mouth around you
& become a brief country of shame, a body that exists at will. I see your face vandalized across the faces of men that stalk the night to become it. Sometimes I think my father was just like you when he was your age. In every dream, I don’t let you force a girl on me because it was for me. I used to move through the world wanting only
this: to unknuckle my body every time a man walks by. I called your friend a bitch because he stole my tongue & I let him. I called him a bitch, but was brought to my knees instead. What is there to say for the woman who lets a man take from her
because she wanted to be wanted? No matter how brief the glory choked out of her.
I wanted a shortcut to heaven so I let your hands about my neck until the light pulled from my eyes. Why are all your interactions with women no different than an invasion? There is a hideous light for the animal desire has made of me. In every dream, I do what I have learned to do best & unsheathe myself. I leave when it’s time to leave. I leave knowing there is nothing to save. Do you understand? Now because of you I am suspicious of joy. And suspicious of myself.

I.S. Jones is an American-Nigerian poet, educator, and music journalist from Southern California by way of New York. She is a fellow with BOAAT Writer’s Retreat, Callaloo, and is a Graduate Fellow with The Watering Hole. Jones is Assistant Editor at Voicemail Poetry as well as Managing Editor at Dead End Hip Hop. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, The Harpoon Review, The Blueshift Journal, SunDog Lit, Matador Review, great weather for MEDIA, The Offing, Anomalous Press, The Shade Journal, Puerto Del Sol, Nat.Brut, and elsewhere.

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Remy Dambron
ter-uh-riz-uhm

stand your ground
legal grounds
attack someone
out of fear

unless you’re brown
from out of town
or differences appear

colonial mentality
prolonging racist roots
con-gress
alt-right
systematic
abuse

discrimination
divided nation
conquer with
lethal forces
right to live trumped
by white circles
he endorses

hide behind the flag
patriotic extravaganza
executively condoned
explosive
propaganda

constitutionally
almost officially
civilian roulette
voter suppression
approaching recession
promoting people
like brett

such a surprise
militarized
statesmen and civilians
arms profits indispensable
deep into the billions

zero
accountability
due process
obstructer
how do we uphold justice
when it called
“to arm our instructors”

sick and twisted
is a mind
that fights fire
with flammables

centuries of progress
swiftly undone
leadership of irrationals

attacking the press
implicating the left
praising assault of reporters

false flags
hashtags
criminals at our borders

misinformation
madness
palpable exhaustion

another special
delivery
best to open with
caut

Remy Dambron is a Portland-based activist and environmentalist. His works have appeared in What Rough Beast, naturewriting.com, and the Veggie Wagon Journal. He has been honored by the Society of Classical Poets for speaking out against human rights violations and is currently working on his first chapbook in political verse denouncing political corruption.

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Sam Avrett
Reflection

The snow curls round the house, folding around air like smoke except white and falling like the opposite of combustion and with pockets of nothing twisted into spirals and dervishes, absences of nameable things. Against the snow, your reflection. It’s night and the light inside and outside compete against the window. I can’t see the garden anymore but it’s out there, the winter remnants outlining what was and what will be.

The news today was terrible. Headlines saying nothing, the silences appalling, and in all my searching, an absence of words about where you are. The outline of events is clear but I am left untethered.

The dairy farmer is named by his cows before they are ever milked, the hunter labelled by the prey before he sets out to hunt. Our country is said to be defined by its ideals, so maybe I was defined by you before we even met, by what I intended and the shape of my needs before I even knew them.

I close my eyes and I see you, I open my eyes and see the snow, and the absences compete, naming who I am by who I am missing.

Sam Avrett lives in a rural county in upstate New York, with dogs, husband, and a startling amount of canned and preserved food stocked away for the winter.

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David Dixon
MAKE AMERICA (the) GARDEN AGAIN

In another ending to the fable
the emperor is still buck naked

and his entire court is similarly
exposed. It is not a sight for the

faint-hearted nor a proper role
model for small children even

the one who says “but Mommy,
that’s a big shiny butt” for we

don’t even look anymore as
fake news becomes no news

and though no one will admit
to wearing no clothes or even

being garment challenged and
heaven only knows what sights

they might see in the mirror
there are those who say we

should make us all naked again
— like the good old days — like

before we exalted all we have
laid bare — before we polished

off the whole bowl of forbidden
fruit in one sitting — yes, back

to the very Garden perhaps
when one bite was too much

and agreeing on our ungodliness

we still could feel the shame

David Dixon is a physician, poet, and musician who lives and practices in the foothills of North Carolina. His poetry has appeared in Rock & Sling, The Northern Virginia Review, Connecticut River Review, FlyingSouth 2018, and elsewhere.

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Judith Skillman
Amerika’s Pain Shoppe

The chessboard’s grown large under the ether and life-sized knights in body armor—virtual, their daggers made by the master blade smith, cooled in a metal bath with bits of manganese and tungsten. Yes, says the owl with smarts, it’s all virtual, creamy king and queen gone cold with chills at opposite ends from one another on the board. I haul myself along with my left arm, on my stomach, me a woman soldier in the map of Syria with something broken—my right shoulder blade. The scapula, they call it here. The fracture like a highway between the plains on the x-ray fixed to the gaudy light box. I drag myself toward the lintel, try to cross the transom. A bit more traction…frozen-shoulder the stained glass door open. Neon colors paired with bevels to deliver prisms on hardwood where shag-sixties rug meets 19th century oak. Glean the answer to the question I wanted trade my life for. Not why suffering so much as where’s oxygen? Want to freshen up the old-fashioned way in the glare of single star shining outside the waiting room, my broken toes caught between frame and door, just short of the alley. There grass grows through asphalt, and earth’s abandoned coal yards vegetate. There horses—green—graze among hillocks of trash, white-blazed, ready to spook at the trespass of man.

Judith Skillman’s new book is Premise of Light, Tebot Bach. She is the recipient of grants from Artist Trust and the Academy of American Poets. Her poems have appeared in Shenandoah, Seneca Review, Cimarron Review, Zyzzyva, and other journals. Visit www.judithskillman.com

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