by Dasha Kelly Hamilton

The lunchroom vibrated its regular din. I was a freshman. Goofy, but played sports. Honors classes, but knew the lyrics to Run-DMC –okay, most of them– and had some dance moves. He was a senior with more work hours than classes, pressed slacks with dress shoes, and ALL the dance moves. I’d witnessed his poplock devour boys from K’town.

by Pat Foran

Can you put me on tilt? my leaning son asks. He can’t help this leaning, even though he’s seat-belted and secure in this wheelchair he’s been sitting in living in declining in the past dozen years. He can’t grip the chair’s controls he can’t control his grip he doesn’t have a grip not anymore. His muscles are wasting away, he’s losing strength, he needs someone to put the chair-back back. He needs someone to put him on tilt. Tilting relieves the pressure on his neck his spine his back his butt he’s got no padding there no padding anywhere not on this young man my son who’s wasting away.

Amaud Jamaul Johnson’s Letter to Wisconsin

Dear Wisconsin–

Dear swing state: Dear battleground and infinite presidential visit: Dear broken-heartland: Dear flyover: Dear Packer fan and Brewer fan and anti-labor leader: Dear Act 10: Dear apple orchard and cranberry bog: Dear Tammy and Ron: Dear Cheesehead: Dear Butter Burger: Dear diabetes and high cholesterol and Ironman: Dear Supermax and overcrowded county lockup: Dear red tape and yellow tape, supper club and polka mixtape: Dear bottle glass and chalk silhouette: