Kathrine Varnes

4VC51N6 817C#

Yes, I know I’ve been her.
I have been her kind
in the back of the wagon, as Sexton said.
It all happens so fast, you can’t imagine
those uniforms and voices point at you.

Pick the wrong command, you won’t
even hear your name as it becomes
a rallying cry. All your life.
All your life, you never checked the box
for martyr. I wish you pumped your fist in the air

instead of blood to nowhere. Your name
and the epithet we share take turns
in wobbly pirouettes. It’s what they say
to justify bullet slap and shackles
you said no to. You said

I’m not mad at you, Dude.
As if his orders had any reason.
As if he thought you were a person.
He knows your name, now
a stone on his tongue. It will not.

It will not be muttered
like a curse. He must swallow it
or sing it skipping over water
for the mother and the poet
who cannot answer. He must sit

in a room barren or full
of comfortable chairs and couches.
Feel the hands patting his shoulder.
All he can hear. Listen.
It’s the sound of falling stones.


Kathrine's YouTube reading of "4vc51n6 817c#"


Kathrine confesses: "On January 7th, 2026, an ICE agent shot Renée Nicole Macklin Good, a few minutes away from the school where she dropped off her 6-year-old son. Immediately after killing her, the agent uttered the title of this poem. This poem is part elegy, part curse."

Kathrine Varnes is the author of a book of poems, The Paragon, and co-editor with Annie Finch of An Exaltation of Forms. Her last publication included three poems in Continuum, ed. Marlena Buczek Smith, in which poets respond to works created by visual artists. She has poems forthcoming in Chiron Review and The World We See, an anthology edited by Lauren Slaughter. Varnes teaches poetry and writing at SUNY's Fashion Institute in Manhattan and lives in Larchmont, New York.

Thomas Piekarski

INSURRECTION

Everyone has a little insurrectionist in them,
rejection of status quo and unwillingness to
comply with bad laws or antiquated customs.

We’re constantly bombarded with horrendous
propaganda, insidious edicts, sham medicines,
misinformation, shaky politicians, AI delusion,
advertisement overload, police brutality, graft.

It doesn’t take a Harvard professor to point out
the myriad of sinister plots swirling, podcasts
and bogus news streaming through fiber cable.

One’s blood will heat beyond the boiling point
as impulse takes over, anger amplified by fear
of being hijacked by a corrupt, sinister regime.
People protest, but the thugs show no remorse.

Patience doesn’t work. That’s been tried before.
Some will sit and grow fat watching TV movies,
ignore what comes and goes, spaced out, mute,
delighted to let time pass right between the ears,
hiding in ignorant negation of pending disaster.

The insurrectionist is not one of them, will seize
weapons with which to wage battle, then cry out
for brothers and sisters to join his army, prepare
for the fight no one can deny is at hand, freedom
at stake, no way to retreat except through fiery
gates of infamy. He will not hesitate while lives
are yet lost to forces whirling them into the void.


Thomas's YouTube reading of "Insurrectionist"


Thomas confesses: This poem deals with our challlenges as a nation and who will step forward to preserve it.

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of publications, including Modern Literature, Poetry Salzburg, Creation Magazine, The Museum of Americana, South African Literary Journal, Home Planet News, and California Poets Anthology. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, Aurora California, and Opus Borealis.

Peter M. Gordon

GUN MOLLS

You can love those sweet young things,
their dimpled chins and fluttering wings.
I want a dame who can handle a gun
and laughs when the trouble bell rings.

She’ll stick by her man ’til the crime is done.
Help him plan jobs; polish his Tommy gun.
She knows each scam; doesn’t fear any cop.
Her life is full of excitement and fun.

She’ll return fire when the bullets pop,
soul mate for man on his way to the top.
She believes her lover’s no common crook.
Oh, molls love their work; their crimes never stop.

For a moll has a code, though it’s not in a book,
She knows when to smile, when not to look;
She’ll kiss her man bye, then pocket his roll,
and leave him before a judge throws the book.

Spare me the ingénue playing a role.
I want a girl who’ll split money we stole.
Hard like diamond, my moll’s colder than ice.
With her, my crime life feels like paradise.


Peter's YouTube reading of "Gun Molls":


Peter confesses: I memorized Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” in fifth grade. I knew I may never write a poem that great, but I realized recently that I could write one with the same format. I thought about film noir, and this poem just seemed to write itself.

PETER M. GORDON is an award-winning poet with over 200 poems published in various journals. He's authored three collections, and is a founder and past President of Orlando Area Poets, a chapter of the Florida State Poets Association. Peter has taught workshops on writing and publishing poetry in several Florida cities. He teaches in Full Sail University's Film Production MFA program.

David Anson Lee

SKIN IN THE GAME

The captains inspected every life jacket
with the tenderness of people
who will never need them.

They tightened straps, issued forms,
circulated safety memoranda
written in calm ink.

Their own jackets remained locked
behind glass doors
in offices with carpet thick enough
to muffle consequence.

From the bridge, the sea was theoretical:
a diagram of possibility,
a risk-adjusted horizon.

Passengers attended seminars
on resilience, preparedness, personal responsibility.

Some learned to float.
Some learned to disappear quietly.
Some learned the mathematics of blame.

When the storm arrived,
it arrived without consultation.

The captains stayed dry
long enough to explain
that water behaves unpredictably
when observed from above.


Gerald So's YouTube reading of "Skin in the Game"


David confesses: "This poem examines asymmetries of risk and accountability in institutional decision-making, where consequences are often borne by those least able to influence outcomes. It asks what it means when exposure to harm is unevenly distributed."

David Anson Lee is a retired ophthalmologist, educator, and poet born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. A former endowed chair and professor of ophthalmology, his poems explore medicine, ethics, identity, history, and the hidden costs of institutional life. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies.