Winter in Certain American Cities

By Alina Zollfrank

To reduce this season to snapshots, headshots, gunshots
does not do them—what was that word again?—
justice. Did (just-) abandon (-ice)?

What makes for cold truth?
Folded donut cartons?
Warm cups of something sweet?
Snow mounts, decorative and defensive?
Does a candle vigil, a prayer poem, an obit
mean we combine
(just-) again with (-ice)?

“It’s just ice,” my kids said when I worried
they might slip. Massive boots, fluffy scarves,
mittens collided in our safe, safe street.
Gingerly, gingerly I stepped outside. Sudden
giggle burbles rose when my arms took flight.
My heart, remembering childhood’s glitter magic,
flitted on skidding soles.
“Just ice?”—no, this winter was so much more.

Let’s rejoice, neighbors, rejoice.
Joy on slippery slope
becomes our shield in the face of weather.


Alina Zollfrank dreams trilingually in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has won the DIAJ Award and been nominated repeatedly for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. She has more upcoming in The MacGuffin, Salt Hill, Thimble, Reckon Review, and Sunlight Press. Alina is a grateful recipient of the Washington Artist Trust Grant, committed disability advocate, and hapless but hopeful gardener.

Photo credit: Cecilie Bomstad on Unsplash


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Unbroken

A Poem by Karen Crawford

There was a dream
a welcome
a torch
a flame
A yearning to breathe free
Now a mask of men in unmarked cars
willing to bend an arm
a knee
There’s a mission
should they choose to accept it
A price
should they choose to collect it
There’s a feast at a Mexican restaurant
after dinner they’ll raid it
There’s news coverage
there’s pressure
Without fear
Without favor?
Opinions first
Alternative facts later?
Snow
Whistles
Bounties?
Saviors
Where are you from?
Show me your papers
There’s a sweep
a goal
a quota
a spin
The worst of the worst
code for color of skin
Does it feel Pretti Good to commit cardinal sin?
Snap tackle pop
Tase for the win
Where’s your nurse at
your gardener
your nanny
your cook?
Going going gone
by hook or by crook
Their status unprotected
Greener pathways rejected
This land is not made for you
Just me
Maria
last seen at Our Lady of the Holy Rosary
Miguel
last seen in the parking lot of Home Depot
Yolanda
last seen Living Más at Taco Bell
Jose
last seen running from La Migra
Maria
Miguel
Yolanda
Jose
Say their names wear it out
Maria
Miguel
Yolanda
Jose
May God shed grace on thee
Maria
Miguel
Yolanda
Jose
Unbroken in the land of dreams


Karen Crawford is a writer, with Puerto Rican roots, who lives and writes in the City of Angels. Her work has been included in Best Microfiction 2025Fictive DreamBending Genres, The Citron Review and elsewhere. You can find her on X @KarenCrawford_ and Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social.

Photo credit: Smithsonian Institution


A Note from Writers Resist
Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist on our Give a Sawbuck page.

what i imagine

By Kate McLaughlin

 

were it that easy, that words alone could save us.
sometimes i let myself imagine
grammatical rebels and daily syllables
of resistance with bold punctuated uprisings.

if words alone could save us,
i’d write all night. in my grammar book,
recruitment would be what hanging prepositions exist for.
hangin’ at all the cool spots, they’d get millennials
to sign up and join in.

dangling surreptitiously, irrefutable proof of
political corruption would be regularly gathered.
obtained by those sneaky participles, of course.

words of compassion and scientifically based research
would always talk louder than money—literally.

‘and justice for all,’ along with other empty phrases,
would be sent to a dictionary boot camp to ensure
they attain their true meaning.

females written in the passive voice would be archaic
grammar. the rule would be women directing action verbs,
issuing commands and making countless interjections.

i’d write similes that could fly like superman and they’d
reunite migrant families, break up nazi rallies and stop
speeding bullets.

and i’d create metaphors that could morph into their conjured
images, like, stories are a respite, words are an oasis,
providing a vacation to the over-pronounced, weary activists
and a livable picture of the world as it could be.

this is what i imagine,
during my nights of hyphenated sleep,
if words alone could save us,
if similes could fly like superman.

 


Kate McLaughlin lives and works in Portland, Maine, with her rescue dog Greta. She keeps her elected representatives on speed dial and is known to attend political rallies. She is fond of dogs, books, gardening and the occasional vodka martini. She is not fond of winter or Senator Susan Collins.

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash.