Sara Biggs Chaney
About the Writer
Sara Biggs Chaney received her Ph.D. in English in 2008 and currently teaches first-year writing in Dartmouth's Institute for Writing and Rhetoric. Sara's poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in RHINO, [PANK], The Dialogist, inter/rupture, Dr. T.J. Eckleburg Review, and other places. You can catch up with Sara at her blog: www.sarabiggschaney.blogspot.com.
taking riot selfies with Gina
around 1, behind the H & M,
to send hot Caleb from Chem 6
who texted me a pic of his cousin in a ski mask
on top of what he said was a patrol car
which made Gina laugh all high and fake
like she just had her nipples pinched
by the Wildcats’ shooting guard
but I didn’t want to be a bitch about it
since shit was breaking off and some real douche
next to Gina broke a beer bottle over his head
and she said the glass sliced right through her new tank
so I said here comes the SWAT let’s take a selfie
and we ran out in the street and showed our teeth
just enough to be cute, but I blinked and
on top of that you couldn’t really see their riot helmets
as the cops lined up behind us like a kick line
at Radio City Music Hall where my grandma took me
every year till she went into assisted living out in Hampstead
so I tagged the photo #missyougramwishyouwerehere
 The title is a reference to the “March Madness” riots at the University of Arizona, and the poem is inspired by the photo accompanying the article.
trying to replicate a recipe in Cooking Light
minus the jicama, which I replace with banana peppers
per the recommendation of my brother who
in spite of his culinary innovations being roundly rejected persists
via phone and script and app to trumpet the salability
of cheese flavored beverages, which
due to a lack of time and capital he has yet to present to investors
but once prepared to do so by watching Shark Tank on demand
until the straight talk of Mark Cuban deflated him
like I felt so small after making my first basket and
upon turning to be praised was told “it’s much harder in a real game”
by my brother who now watches the shopping channel instead
because things are tough all round, for everyone.
South Bend, May 17, 1924
Uncle Pat told me the story:
How the Irish boys came down
to beat the Kluxers back onto the train.
No one wanted them to do it.
Not the fathers on the hill,
the partisan police,
the men and girls of Goshen,
with their crisp sheets
and Saturday smiles.
They did it anyway.
in new shoes,
with knuckles out.
Story goes, those bog jumpers
stole a Methodist’s baby,
slapped its flushed