Catch and Release by Jiboni Gloistein (after “On Setting a Migrant Goose Free,” by Po-Chü-i) I was just close enough to watch the playful waterbugs glide around the shallow end of the water. The breeze brought the fresh scent of the still forest— But it was disturbed by pattering footsteps. Small scuffed sneakers bounded to the water; The boy wasted no time casting his fishing line. Constant movement, The tapping of his feet, The trading of his fishing rod from one hand to the other. It was sure to scare his prey away. Nevertheless, soon enough he was reeling something in. His father silently approached, Not bothering the little fisherman Until it was time to unhook whatever he’d caught. They released the fish together, Letting their hands brush against the sand in the water. The fish darted away and the two readied the pole for its next cast. Then, a splash. The fish had sped back to them, Marooned itself on the shore. The father ushered it into the water again, But it just writhed back, jumping into his palm. It strained to breathe, but it stayed. It was desperate for . . . What? A place where it couldn’t breathe? Where it saw nothing it had ever seen below the surface? It wanted so miserably to leave the place where it was safe, Where it had always been. The three of us stayed put. We wished we could ask it, Why?
Multiple Choice: What Is the National Anthem? by Sophia Hall (after “A New National Anthem,” by Ada Limón) a) the song / that binds / and stitches / gaping wounds / two sides / sewn back / together / on Super Bowl Sunday / or a high school homecoming / the tuba players / the solo soprano / the audience / that stands / hand over heart / listening / the song that sustains / and softens b) hesitating / keys in the ignition / halfway turning / the gas money / dwindling / the prices / rising / smoke / lingering / in the air / frost / pipes rusting over / it will be a hard winter / mother sighs / bundle up / you notice / your bare toe / peeking out / from the black sock c) bang / chanting / no justice / no peace / bang / “there are riots” / says the news / bang / insurrection / the glass storefronts in Georgetown boarded up / bang / Parkland / nail salons / gay bars / bang / say their names / George / Breonna / Ahmaud / Tamir / bang d) my grandmother / cooking / in the kitchen / today / every day / there is soup / chicken / simmering / there on the stove / here is a bowl / take a spoonful / smell / garlic / rising / potatoes / thick / warming / onion / down the throat / eat more / there is plenty / to share
Pragma for Country on Fire by Leila Jackson (after “Aubade with Burning City,” by Ocean Vuong) America, evening of May 29, 2020: Protests for police brutality spread nationally after the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis a few days prior. The protests are met with further violence from police and the National Guard. I am fifteen, there is smoke. My mother microwaves fried rice and eats forkfuls disappearing between her lips crazy, she says slowly. I think I might be dreaming. A soldier spits at the ground grinds it in with his heel, it sizzles on the gravel like acid in my eyes he reaches for his hip, they pull the girl back until she trips and falls and spreads her arms wide, cries shoot me. The grocery store is out of milk; they pour the pure white into the eyes of the innocent like coming up for air. A car driven into a shop window, a finger locked tight. I am fifteen, there is blood. You’ve found something to be proud of, finally, he said, reached under her skin and found the trigger: the rats swarm in the streets and feast on corpses. The screams bleed through the ground, a painting in bloom red on white on blue and a sprig of rosemary, purifying. The air woven with pepper and fire and some inhuman creature’s blood. I must be dreaming, a small girl with hair like mine is bleeding from one eye, the other streaming from the smoke. They pour the milk on her face and for a second she is pale in purity, for a second she is clean. Her sisters spread their arms together, red on white on blue (on black) cry shoot me and he does.
unsent letter to my blackness by monique jonath (after “ode to my blackness,” by Evie Shockley) dearest blackness, i cannot think of you without thinking of light. when it hits us it does not s h a t t e r you made us a people who can hold on to light, to line ourselves with pearling moon and become iridescent bodies i some times wonder when the holder of something becomes the origin. because they told me you were where i went wrong, told me to look in the mirror and see nothing but worthless scrawled where my eyes should be. d a eye look n r o u and see your warmth from our chests em a n a t i n g in a language we do not speak but understand.
this is what you—and your forest—brought me by Jaeden Roberts (after “The Pillory and the Steepled Dark,” by Adam Tavel) listen: the hum of your white petal hands running across the cherry tree, then the thunderclap. it is my hymn to love, my tempest: this blood-red painting, the beating—this tune we sing. alone in the green, the wingless cockatoo kisses the painted lady with a feather in her cap. first, i dip my brush to her cheek, the right pink, then to the roots of her hair, fragrant as the sea. i reach beneath her silk sleeve to the hollow of her wrist for that burgundy. the beat rings. listen: the hum of your white petal hands running across the cherry tree, then the thunderclap. i trace my lips down your pearly neck, teeth. i paint peonies and roses, all manner of beasties: tiny lavender fingerprints you’ve left in books i read. in the margins of each ending, your sea scent clings. alone in the green, the wingless cockatoo kisses the painted lady with a feather in her cap. then you are gone, ink from the crack we didn’t fix ruins it all, and i’m crying under your cherry tree until i fall asleep, and in my dream, i finally see that, because of us, winter had turned to spring. listen: the hum of your white petal hands running across the cherry tree, then the thunderclap. i search every garden for you. now, come out, please, darling. please make sense of it for me, how now i am left without you, scrounging for your song through my piano and its little gold strings. alone in the green, the wingless cockatoo kisses the painted lady with a feather in her cap. every forest i entreat is silent, but i hope one day the leaves speak of how, somewhere, you’re free. i visited the ocean, where your hair blows in the breeze, and heard first love is only what we bring. listen: the hum of your white petal hands running across the cherry tree, then the thunderclap. alone in the green, the wingless cockatoo kisses the painted lady with a feather in her cap.
news report by Annaliese Simons (after “Executive Order,” by Susanna Lang) I don’t remember when I started blowing on my hands—to me it was just the next bullet point in a long history of mysteriously unacceptable movements soldered poorly into my neurology, but it’s been years now and it hasn’t left. “Why do you do that?” asked my mother, once. “I don’t know,” I said, and most of me didn’t. But, inexorably, I watch the news and violenthandsbatteringthroughthecapitoldoors plunge peregrine-quick into firesragingdidtheyeverstop the hospital chair plastic of consciousness fourpointfivemillionglobaldeaths to find that I am once again blowing on my hands.