Poetry

Kyiv at War
by Adrian Bonenberger

1

Western faces crowd Kyiv's underground,
illuminate the holiday commute,
dotted sequential, on big-knotted wire
(wrap it around the pine and plug it in).
They shine like annual Christmas cheer,
the merry green and red lights, blinking

Noon Lockdown
by Tami Haaland


We ask if it is real and the cell phones 

say yes. Some students soothe themselves, 

some panic. Write, I tell them. But

they write about Columbine, how they

came back from lunch and heard the news. 

More texts come in: men with guns 

two floors down, swat teams,

nine police cars. We plan what to do.

Since You Asked Me
by Rachel Michaud

“If he knocks at your thin door, let him in”
Adam Zagajewski

If he knocks at your door
let him in
the man who teaches
young soldiers how to survive
in Iraq, in Syria,

Refugees
by Sheryl Slocum

Forced to wander without
language,
those memories leave
footprints,
the kind that made
you tremble
and hide, try to still
the klaxon
thudding of your heart,
stifle

Snipers on the Roof
by Sheryl Slocum

Washington, DC, April, 1968

Tourists fresh from Wyoming
to a closed-down capital,
we made a game of counting them:
43, white like us,
in fatigues—no cowboy hats,

Dear Judith Wright
by Lisa Stice

My daughter had that nightmare again
(this is five nights in a row now),
and when I ask her what it was about,
she lacks the words to tell me

Easy
by Laura Madeline Wiseman

sukhasana

You arrive early, but still, you remove clothing, sit on a mat. Soon others join, the teacher dims lights, locks the door, then starts the music. You ease into the space where your knees can still take their lucky fold. Your hands palm like a mythic hero. Gravity drops through you, spine to pelvis to sit bones to floor, doing its steady work. Do you know how open you are or how much you can turn?

First Warrior
by Laura Madeline Wiseman

virabhadrasana I

Like an ax prepares to bury into the game the tribe needs to live, you hold arms high. Like fingers that point towards a permission to kill, your hands grip. Like any prelaunch crouch to cleave what others have downed with arrows, you bend one leg. Like anywhere is better. Like a heart could be open. Like a gaze could see through the sky. But her eyes are wild, back bending, paws scuffling the dust, she writhes. You hold the weight of this. Half-flexed, you breathe. How many poses are there until the final blow?

Unopened
by Nicole Yurcaba

for my father

we are told not to look

we are told this never happened

we are told to clean it up



eight hundred feet short jumped

turns a man spins him face-forward
s