Who Loves You, Baby?


This page is specifically reserved for reader submissions, whether they be poetry, nonfiction articles, stories, research pieces, photos, or whatever else is submitted and of appropriate content.

If you would like to submit material to Interrace, please send them to:

Submission Numero Uno (just copied and pasted directly from the author):

Swimming to New Race

International Adoption and Salt Air-

By Gregory D. Gross

Professor, Social Work Department

The College of Saint Rose

(phone number and e-mail withheld)


On the Beach

The Seoul cop had to hike up his pants

To bend down

To squat over and squint into what he’d found

Outside the precinct gate

Outside the Confucian tradition

Outside matrimonial manners

Outside the capacity to cope

Outside the law

Outside a mother’s tortured screaming

For one more day with her baby

She can not keep


Seoul cop’s noon kim-chee burned

All the way down

And into the night.

Adrift ‘Midst the Swells

Beyond the dateline and the continental drift

Where western couples sit and sift

Through December’s solstice yearnings,

A Pearl Harbor Day toast

(a nip of Southern Comfort at the most),

We decided to put off our quest for the perfect tree

For one more week, and then we’ll see

What spirit moves us.

No need to go outside.

No need to heat up the car.

No need to go outside.

No need to tarry far.

Although it’s hard, no Christmas card

Contains the long awaited magic

Made so by an infant’s mug shot mania

Made so by the perfect match

Of east meets west before winter’s end.

A thaw will breeze over New York.

A Seoul cop will let her go

And she will come with the Spring.

Surf’s Up

On the eve of St. Patrick’s Day

She seized these yearning arms to stay,

Traveled across so many seas

To land in eager hands as these,

Flown around the horn, over the pole,

Down Greenland’s frozen coast

Along the Hudson’s Van Winkle banks.

Oh, Joanna, in your nine months,

Odysseus has nothing on you!

Pious Aeneus, home to Rome,

Made a journey far more brief.

Huck and Jim seemed mighty slim

In their up-river rush

To claim a New World.

Korean Air, now aloft

Flying fast, landing soft

(though never did 22 hours last so long

or touch-down rob such breath)

We salute your ovarian take-off.

We hold high your uterine flight.

We embrace your precious zygote cargo.

Go ahead, buzz the tower,

Tip your wing

Hire back the humbled souls of reaganstrike

                                    Shoot the curl!

Paddling Out

Naked or not

I’m the last white kid on the block,

Which is my clan – –

The last white boy in the band.

A whithered white russian on the rocks

All curdled and clotted cream.

Here, dripping in my whiteness

That has seen its last

Tanning shoulders, hot and buttered, bent to the wind.

No Chingachgook tears shed for a dying race

In his mourning glory

(‘cept my father’s).

Just the Edge

Of color, pressed against another heir

Like the snowline at Everest basecamp one.


Like the glacial rim along

Maunaloa’s december icecreep

Where rainforest greens its way

Toward her ancient dormant mouth.

A Yukon apothesis.

This the ivory of Pequod quest

Gone under

To sound and breach no more.

Blind down below.

The color of light

O’er all that is seen and unseen

As if lost in an arctic whiteout dream.

A new moon

A fresh tide

Big wave.


Counting the sets, waiting


Makaha fools the foreign born

With her slight summer surf.

Her placid surface masks a monster

That hides in the unseen sand;

A monster that breathes not

Yet will suck the living breath from any man

As if to steal his air for

No good reason.

Perhaps to feed the froth that laces her shore,

Perhaps to outspit some southsea rival,

Perhaps to cool and mock Pele,

Fire goddess with spit of her own – –

New lava for a new land,


A mere sandspeck in the eye of an oyster

To Makaha’s hidden Scylla.

We’re talkin’ the mother of all whirlpools!

An undertow whose source must lie at the equator

Because it will take you there

Given half a chance.

Its force originates at the center of the earth.

Ancient ankles, kneecaps, and thighs

Drawn and dragged to some core


Beyond Lethe, river of forgetfulness,

Beyond the howling snapping jaws of Serberus,

that hound, three-headed, who guards

the subterranean root-cellar beneath all graveyards.

At Makaha you must stay afloat.

Swim for your life.

Stay on top.

Don’t touch a single toe to the reef.

It was at Makaha that I learned that

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Flopping about, all a-splash

Flailing around, all worn out,

I noticed that salt water is neither

Salt nor water.

I also wondered how much, if any,

Salt water went into salt water taffy

But mainly I noticed that salt water is


Salt nor water (nor taffy).

And I noticed that the breaking waves

Were neither air nor salt water,

The way the head of a beer isn’t really beer at all.

Although at the same time, it is clear

That salt water is indeed salt and water

And the head of a beer is indeed air and beer – –

And why I imagined St. Patrick

Converting the Celts with a shamrock,

each leaf a separate manifestation of god,

Why I imagined this

I don’t know.

Because let’s face it

Neither salt and water nor beer and air

Make up two-thirds of any trinity

I know of

For Chrissakes!

But I digress.

Makaha and her salt water reminded me

Nature abhors a vacuum.

The race that slipped from my face

Must have gone somewhere.

To the equator?

And my darling dauter (her spelling)

Brought us a gift from the east.


A new day

A new color in our home.

The Makaha foam

At the edge

Of a small continent, itself adrift,

This foam,

Not air, not salt, not water,

Defied the undertow,

Spat back

And exulted its hybred-edness.


With a beer chaser.

Heads up; surf’s up

Bicoastal, bi-racial, by golly!


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