Ken Craft

Be Fruitful and Multiply

Newly fascinated with germination, 

my 80-year-old father shows patience—

something Mom says he never had at 23

when planting the seed 

that would blossom into me.

Using thick and calloused hands

that once warmed the handles of hammers, 

wrenches, hacksaws,

Dad carves pineapple leaves from the fruit,

cuts close to the stem,

finds the corona of rust-colored root nodes,

nests them in a bed of potting soil.

Slicing lemons for his bourbon lemonade,

he extracts slippery seeds,

presses them into the peat moss 

and composted bark of a planter, 

considers how his next heir

might be a lemon tree: trunk strong and firm,

leaves green and smooth, 

skin clean and canaried near a citrus

window sunny with southern exposure.

Sometimes It Happens to You

If you’re driving through Alfred,

Dad says, never pick up a hitchhiker

carrying a single bag. Chances are

he was just released from County Jail,

and won’t that be a shit show riding shotgun?

His grease-whorled thumb and forefinger

rotate a glass of Tito’s on the counter.

Turning to my older sister, he adds, a man tries

to talk you into a car, his or yours, no way

you comply. Not under any circumstance.

I don’t care if he’s got a gun to your gut

or a knife sniffing your carotid.

I don’t care if he’s got some bullshit story

about an emergency involving wife

and kids up the road.

Run if you can but scream no matter what—

every ounce you got, y’hear?

Cause you get in that car and he drives off

with you, you’re 97% dead.

Better odds he bolts when you scream,

especially in a parking lot or on a street—

anywhere there’s a chance you’ll be heard.

Under sharp lights, the frost in his Marines

crewcut shines with the same Brylcreem

he’s used since he was fourteen.

And don’t smirk like this will never happen

to you, either. I’m not wasting my breath here!

You need to know how to react

in any situation because shit happens,

and sometimes it happens to you.

I say: Or me. And he tilts the weathered blue

of his eyes my way. Less so to boys, he says,

but who knows anymore in this fucking world.

And swallows two fingers of vodka.

---

Ken Craft is a Maine poet and author of three collections. His poem "The Pause Between" will appear in the Pushcart Prize XLIX: Best of the Small Presses 2025 Edition.

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Robin Ragan

The Interpreter

asylum interview in Dilley, Texas 2019

In first person protocol

no omissions or additions

tongue and gums twist a path

saliva like ink to the press

ventriloquist for hire:

I’m the cold judge with a routine spiel

the lead respondent is deemed removable

I’m the nice lawyer asking the cruel questions

how many were there? how many times?

But mostly, I am her, the me that speaks

bloodshot ears, I mouth the horrors.

I see through the tear brimming

almost pick at the burn scars on her knuckles

look down at my notebook

when her eyes fall in shame,

why didn’t you go to the police?

we choke up,

I fake thirst so we both can catch our breath.

You steal a glance as if to plead

make my fear credible

I sneak a delicate nod and hope you read me:

I got you

The gavel drop breaks our bond.

Thankyous and goodbyes

God bless you and keep you safe

Home, I try to be just me again.

I shred the evidence:

pages where I said I was you

in half words, symbols, and scribbles

where my pen opened and closed wounds

fresh and old.

Only her, I can not shake

even after I scrub the stains from my hands.

---

Robin Ragan is a professor of Spanish at Knox College where she teaches translation and interpreting. She is a certified medical and legal interpreter who often works with survivors seeking asylum or other kinds of immigration relief in the United States.

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Derek Dew

Understanding the Arena

Light was let all the way in

Eventually I noticed the bra

Near the cactus in the corner

Of the yellow lawn & then

My gaze rose up the thorns

Until I saw a pair of panties

Hanging from the cactus itself

High sun over the dead car

Blue but rusted at the fenders

As though it were baring its teeth

In the driveway at the end of the porch

Where the knife pa gave me lay

After I had stuck it into the board

Left it vertical then he walked by

Tossed his foot to kick it away

I looked at him drawing his breath

He turned to me & that was all for awhile

Adapting to the Arena

The men were leaning

On the cinderblock wall

Speaking in low tones

To each other with eye contact

While nodding towards ma

Who was walking next to me

About to step into the corner store

But when I saw them see her

I decided to wait outside

So I could hear them talk

Watch them smoke laugh & spit

I tried to finish their sentences

In my head but was unable to

When ma walked out the store

They got quiet looking at her

They saw me & I realized

If I could be wanted like her

I could escape being like them

Overcoming the Arena

When the forty ounce

Was handed to me just enough

Of the green glass peaked

Above the brown paper bag

For a little moonlight to reflect

While one of the boys questioned

Whether or not I would be able

To lift it to my mouth being

Young small skinny as I was

I held the bottle with both hands

I raised its bottom high

I began to tap my fingers

On its side like I was playing

The trumpet & everybody laughed

While malt liquor poured into me

Older girls older boys everybody

I had made them all laugh

But ocean thrashed in front of us

& I was not confident

I was worried

So I appeared ready

---

Derek Thomas Dew is a neurodivergent, non-binary poet. Derek’s debut poetry collection “Riddle Field” received the 2019 Test Site Poetry Prize from the Black Mountain Institute/University of Nevada.

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