Meg Pokrass: Enlightened Adventures of Mark Zuckerberg
“Say, is that a dorsal fin in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” she blurts, all seaweed hair, bioluminescent lipstick, wiggling like a stuck jellyfish— illuminating unseen caves of Mark Zuckerberg’s shipwrecked heart.
William Trowbridge: Breakdown
The foreman led me into a cavernous room that took up most of the ground floor, where three huge machines unspooled 16-ton rolls of tin plate into sheets to be turned into cans. The machines resembled aircraft carriers, with ladders to the control towers.
Robert Frost: A Servant to Servants
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once – yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum.
Marianne Dhenin: Voters Demand a Bolder and More Progressive Democratic Party
Around the U.S., progressive candidates are preparing to run for office and push for a liberal opposition that lives up to its ideals.
Stuart Dischell: Pleasure Harvest
Nights were difficult when her absence curled beside him,
A long-legged question no longer to be answered.
James Zogby: Why Does the US Press Ignore the Trauma Experienced by Palestinians in Gaza? Racism
Because we don’t see Palestinians as fully human, we fail to understand how destroying their lives, denying them a normal present and a hopeful future can result in deformities in their sense of self.
Mary Jane White: Rain, In Riverview Cemetery, Martins Ferry, Ohio
The rain
Already hangs a grey shawl in front of the blue domes of the Ohio
Greek Orthodox church, standing cheek by jowl by an industrial dairy.
Abby Zimet: A Sea Of Sorrow | Mindless Cruelty Remains the Point
Still held in a Louisiana detention center for the crime of denouncing the slaughter and starvation of Gazan children, Palestinian activist Mahmoud Khalil told a judge Thursday his deportation would likely mean death for him and his family.
Adam Patric Miller: Two Poems
there’s a train approaching
always a train approaching
lights burning blue and red in the dark
Valerie Bacharach: Venice
My husband and I sit in Piazza San Marco, sip overpriced coffee
in morning sun, and at home my friend loses pieces
of herself each hour
Doug Anderson: Memorial Day
It’s only old Herman sitting a few yards off in the recliner
who looks beyond them into a burning village where a marine
drags a wounded man by his heels behind a tank for cover
and the tank backs up and runs over them both.
R.S. Ramirez: Losing My Mother to Trump
Implicit, of course, was the narrative of us and them, of being a certain kind of immigrant compared to the rest. She blended in perfectly, and as her child, I did the same.
Robert Cording: Broken
Now, my brother’s fifty-year marriage
broken off as if their past was
an imposter that had been discovered.
And my best friend’s wife can’t find
the name for husband,
though he sits next to her.
Barbara Crooker: Credo
You can till the earth,
hoe the rows, but each seed is an act of belief
that somehow in the dark something
is happening:
