Writing is an act of resistance
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Six Feet Is All We Need
By Robert Knox Generally speaking, I’m pretty good at keeping my distance In fact, for days on end I’m practically sheltering in place, possibly even self-quarantining, though I’m not sure where one of these nonce phrases leaves off, and the other begins. I did, however, break solitude to stroll with my bestie to the
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Grace in the Time of the Virus
By Melanie Bell Take this time For yourself. Everyone around you Is doing the same, Snatching the last eggs from air. You start, you care A little too much, Don’t finish the chapter You intended to write. Everybody’s chapters Are unfinished, now, Some cut off mid-sentence, The foot suspended midair, The period still to come.
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Whiteness in Bloom
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To Face Ourselves
By Claudia Wair Most people keep their masks in a kitchen drawer or hang them up on a rack next to their keys. The masks are then easily accessible in case of visitors and when you’re on the way out of the house. My mother is different, though. She keeps hers in the top
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Elongation
By Annette Januzzi Wick Liz Warren drops from orbit Venus still lit but out of reach Back to the old man in the moon Hope doesn’t float when scorched Annette Januzzi Wick is a writer, teacher and community connector. She makes her home in Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine, with her husband, who calls her the
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Women’s Day
By Cooper Gillespie Cooper Gillespie is a writer and musician. She was raised in the wettest parts of the Pacific Northwest but escaped to California as soon as she was able and was overjoyed to discover the sun actually exists. She plays bass and sings in LANDROID and is an MFA candidate at UC
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This poem
By Rachel Norman is a product of our time. It wakes up, gasping after dreams where it drowned in ice-melt. It believes we can still change. I saw it yesterday, running, and asked why it ran. It had no words to answer with, only a song it wrote for a child who cried last
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Beating Wanderlust
By Mileva Anastasiadou It’s not like you chose the destination. But you step onto the car, or the plane, or the ship, attempting to find a comfortable seat. You don’t choose the seat, they tell you, so you sit where indicated, not bothering with questions. And it all seems a miracle in the beginning.
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Teaching Poetry In Prison
By Susan Kelly-DeWitt I think of him as a victim (a veteran) of war— every day was the enemy in a house- hold that thought children should be punished with barbed wire, belts, burns, punches, pinches, slaps, kicks, starvation. Where meth was the vitamin, sex was the money, where poverty was the neighborhood, poverty