ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: McKnight Road, Pittsburgh, PA 15237, by Rin Pastor

after “The First Water is the Body” by Natalie Diaz

A road is not a body. It does not live or breathe—rather, it breaks itself open and swallows things whole. Even that is a poor metaphor, because the road is not a body. It is concrete with a mouth.

When I was learning to drive, my mother told me that Pennsylvania has too many deer. They jump in front of headlights and leave guts strewn across the highways. Cars split them apart like roads split us across fault lines. My mother told me that you can’t break if you see a deer.

The road is always hungry, but it is not a body. You can never tell what it wants to take or what it will steal from you. But it steals. It is always taking.

They call traffic congestion sometimes. I don’t know why, and I don’t think I ever will. A road cannot be sick from the function it was meant to serve. It is no more congestion than it is the hapless violence of automobile. I prefer suffocation, because suffocation is a violence, not a sickness.

In the Philippines, the roads are clogged and suffocated with tricycles and buses and cars—if you’re lucky enough to have one. The New York Times says that the poor infrastructure “Erodes Nation’s Growth Prospects,” but who is doing the eroding? The road splits forests and deer, and typhoons and winter storms open the road.

You can’t break if you see a deer. Better the deer than you. Better the deer than the car. There are so many of them, after all.

Sometimes, when you drive, you don’t remember it. You move without thinking, turn signals and stop
lights and white lines. They call it “highway hypnosis.”

I never finished learning how to drive. It scares me, the way the car is a beast and the road is hungry but neither are bodies. The way the deer guts will always be more of a body than the regenerative tar and concrete roads. Animals live in cycles. Roads exist in perpetuity.

Allegheny County has the worst infrastructure in Pennsylvania. In 2022, the Fern Hollow Bridge
collapsed. It injured four people, and six vehicles fell over 100 feet. News reports say that the collapse began when “the transverse tie plate on the southwest bridge leg failed due to extensive corrosion and section loss caused by the continual accumulation of water and debris, which prevented a protective rust layer, called a patina, from forming.” Reports were made before the collapse. The City of Pittsburgh never acted. The President was called and press conferences were had. It was a failure on a city, state, and federal level.

My mother learned how to drive when she was eleven. She learned in the suffocating roads on the
Philippines, and then she moved to Pennsylvania and failed her driver’s licence test twice.
The road is not a body. I don’t know what it is, but it is not a body.

In 2022, there were 5848 car accidents in Pennsylvania involving deer. At least 1264 people were
injured and nine were killed. I don’t know how many deer were killed. PennDOT “drivers are urged to maintain their distance from the animal.”

When Spain colonized the Philippines, they built roads to transport soldiers. Jeffery Kaja writes that highway projects were started in Pennsylvania by European settlers to “[reinforce] a conceptualization of roads as spaces that facilitated social, economic and political integration.” Robert Caro says that “Science, knowledge, logic and brilliance might be useful tools but they didn’t build highways or civil service systems. Power built highways and civil service systems.”

The records of Pittsburgh roads call McKnight Road a “major artery” built to accommodate soldiers
moving into the area after World War II. At the same time, Japanese colonization of the Philippines further destroyed the country’s infrastructure, deteriorating roads and stealing girls.

The Fern Hollow Bridge collapse severed a natural gas pipeline. Local residents were evacuated.
Reports say nothing of the world beyond the road and the people. The bridge was rebuilt in a year,
faster than the potholes and fractures that open along Pennsylvanian fault lines. If the road is not a body, what should we call these wounds? If these wounds hurt critters and cars, can we call them wounds?

It can cost up to $118 to drive from one end of Pennsylvania to the other. Highways beget power and need power to sustain themselves. Is this a life cycle? Is this what the road is so hungry for?

My brother crashed our car in a state of highway hypnosis. It was late at night, and his body was not his own. He was unharmed. The car was demolished, flipped onto its side and crushed into a tree’s flesh.

There was no deer, but in my dreams, I am always crashing into its soft and broken body, and its heart has stopped by the time I stumble into the grasses beside its corpse.

ODE Poem: Ode To The Poets, by Kevin Roberts

Oh yay, yay — to poets we say,
Let’s raise our pens and shout hooray!
Whether you vibe with Maya’s grace,
Or stroll through Poe’s dark, dreamy place—

Poetry speaks when we have no voice,
It soothes our hearts, it gives us choice.
It lifts us up when we are low,
And lets our deepest feelings show.

From ancient Homer’s epic scrolls,
To Rumi’s fire that stirs our souls—
To every poet, near and far,
I honor you, bright guiding star.

So here’s to verse, both fierce and free,
A gift of raw humanity.
Let every stanza, rhyme, and line
Remind us: words are so divine.

GRIEF Poem: Betrayal, by Jen Rowan

Years of betrayal
26 years to be exact
Holidays, vacations, children
Since the day they met

A long time coming
Waiting for the other shoe to drop
It didn’t hurt any less
Or make it easier to stop

On their family vacation
Cheating with him as she slept in their bed
Destruction was eminent
She slept in oblivion of the devastation that loomed

She felt completely hopeless
Worry about her children set in
Would they think less of her, would they judge
Without him she knew she would be better for them

Anger and rage
Sadness and loss
Change and growth
Forgiveness and peace

Forgiving was not for him
She deserved to be free
Enough time was wasted
She was beginning to see

JR

ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: The Last Tree Has Fallen, by Reign Moses

stand on the shoreline of the now forgotten sea.
The quiet humming of the waves is drowned by the
Music of innovation in the city that never sleeps.
The waters brush against my feet in a plea to remember—to never forget.
Outside this quiet space is a world that battles for perfection; a creature birthed into sentience,
Consuming the old to create a new.
We create knowledge that surpasses our understanding,
Gambling with fate one idea after another.
Our leaders are blind, soulless creatures grasping for more.
When will it ever be enough?

I fall to my knees, one metal and one flesh.
With each journey we pursue away from our lands,
We fail to see; our waters are poisoned.
We should have known our end was near when our future generation failed to recall
A world filled with flourishing greenery that once surrounded our homes.
Gone are the days we prayed to a god in earnest.
Now, we create our moons.
We have forsaken our bones and skin,
Sacrificing limbs for better, faster, stronger modifications.
What differentiates us from the machines we create?

Immortality stares us in the face,
Our newest adversary is aging.
We ignore what we fail to see; the trees have fallen.
The waters brush against my fingers.
I dig deeper, metal and flesh colliding.
My reflection stares at me, more silver than skin,
As I unravel underneath the glare of our artificial sky.
The soil is dying.

GRIEF Poem: Things I Never Got to Grieve, by Meg Taylor

You can’t bury someone who still walks.
Not really.
You just carry them,
like a stone in your throat
you’ve trained yourself not to choke on.

I was only a child who finally spoke,
her only response was no Christmas for you,
like joy was a leash
and I’d finally pulled too hard.

I didn’t cry.
I calcified.
Everyone says grief is love with nowhere to go,
but what do you call it
when the person still has a phone number?
A pulse?

She was never mine.
Not really.
She loved others
but me, she avoided
because I saw too much.
I stood too tall in her shadow.
Wouldn’t shrink.

The last time we spoke,
I told her I loved her.
I meant it like a eulogy.
Then I let the silence close like soil.

I grieve her still.
Not as a mother.
As the ache
of having one
who never knew how.

ODE Poem: Recondite Chinese Character Philosophy of ‘Progress’, by CHANDU CHANDRAKAR

Chinese philosophy is of profound significance,
Every word contains an abstruse construal
For example, the word ‘progress’ embraces:
A walking radical, followed by a well.
The meaning is to step ahead and jump into a pit [well]
That’s progress!!!
’T enunciates the consequence of progress is:
Trap yourself in a well
And then get desolated from the world and beyond
As a frog at the bottom of the well, or rather ‘dogmatic Ye
Lang’.
China’s real estate industry has prospered so greatly
This is a touchstone of Chinese language philosophy
of ‘progress’
The quintessential model till date!
The higher education sector has also advanced so significantly
Other industries shall have to wait!!!
The ancient glyph is from ‘隹’, which refers to a bird.
The essence of ‘progress’ in traditional Chinese
Indicates: move forward and move upward
That’s the meaning of progress
Known to me to date!
Once I asked my most revered teacher:
“Teacher, how is this progress?”
Teacher: “Well, I’d speed up my efforts to improve you
Make you step into well is my solemn responsibility too
When you walk out of it on your own, then you’ll succeed.”
My teacher has already left for heavenly abode,
But now I could guess his such a recondite meaning, so deep.

RELIGION Poem: -May God be our witness, by Erianique Hendrix

May God be our witness to the love I hold for you.
A love born from pure innocence,
Where time vanished as your soul danced with mine.
Through your brown eyes, you saw me—
My flaws, my softness, my scars.
Your wisdom poured through me,
Your voice still echoing in the chambers of my mind.
The world faded when we laughed like children,
Moments now written among the stars.
Your music, your language—our cultures entwined
In something holy.
Tienes mi corazón.
Can you hear my cries?
They say fairytales aren’t real
But mi amor,
what else could you call the time I spent with you?