LEGAL CLINIC, CHURCH RECTORY, MARCH 2026

by Paula Finn

AI-Generated graphic from Craiyon

Let me not forget the volunteer interpreter,

his black bangs, a curtain raised in this dim room

as if to let in any word: hambre, matanza.

His hands, sallow, unwrinkled. He offers 

the pro bono lawyer starvation, death,

what propelled the woman seated to his left

2,000 miles on foot and crammed in vans,

a path our young interpreter already knows

not in Spanish/English, but in thirst, in ditches

become a bed, saguaros lurking overhead.

Still he comes here every Monday night.

His gift, to translate horror free of charge.

Paula Finn has been nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize. Her poems appeared recently in Common Ground, Bicoastal Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and Spoon River Review. On the hundredth anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, Finn spearheaded a piece of musical theater capturing that historic tragedy and the female immigrant worker organizing that arose in its wake. Featuring Finn's poetry set to music composed by the late composer Elizabeth Swados, the dramatic oratorio, Triangle: From the Fire, won the Best New Musical Theater award at the 2011 Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. 

ODE TO BLAZING INFERNO

by Clara Altfeld 

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

O America, I too fear my own demise.

I thought nothing was so permanent 

that it could never be undone, 

but in you, constants shift 

and movement stills.

I swore before God in a city you promised to love

that I would honestly demean myself

that I would support the Constitution 

of the United States—that sickened poem

written in praise to itself.

Attorney comes from an Old French word

meaning to turn to. And if I had not sworn myself

to your wretched service, America, I would turn 

away and away and away.

And in the turn: a shift, a settling, and the past, 

silky and surreal, would come rewinding back. 

The hearing, unheard. No judge, no gavel,

no order of removal for the mother and daughter

I had promised to protect. 

We walk backwards out from the courtroom,

Wrinkle our suits and hang them in the closet

Unwrite, undemand, unmove the pleasure of the court.

Become strangers again, part ways.

I, reversed to my little luxuries, spinning in place. 

Mother and daughter, to unend their journey,

undo footprints in the desert, the jungle.

Leave the sand unmarked, the Darien Gap uncrossed.

Let the boat rise from the waters

like the dawning sun. Water will expel 

from lungs. Eyes will unclose.

Husband and four children will unsleep 

their watery sleep. Shelter from demons

as a family. Oh, America, 

haven’t you always been this way?

Under the shine and sparkle, 

hollow and hostile and unholy?

Buried beneath the bones and rot

of bodies once loved?

Oh, America, let me write you 

a beating heart.

Bring yourself back to life so I can see you

in the firelight.

Clara Altfeld is a lawyer in Houston, Texas. She hopes to own a cat one day. This poem was written in workshop with KT Herr.

POSEUR

by Devon Balwit

The New York Times

Today, I’m much struck by a phrase in the news

and try it out—“I demand your unconditional surrender!”—

my finger on the trigger, a lit match by the fuse.

 

Like magic, it aligns differing views.

(Backed by troops and gelignite, no wonder!) 

I’m much struck by this phrase from the news.

 

“Bring me tribute,” I add, “your children, booze!”

and suddenly, my house dazzles with gilt-y splendor.

My finger on the trigger, a lit match by the fuse,

 

my cup runneth over with oily ooze.

I down glass after glass, a drunk on a bender,

spurred on by this phrase I pulled from the news.

 

Outside, the sky purples to the shade of a bruise.

Let lesser men hide. I now live for thunder,

my finger on the trigger, a lit match by the fuse.

 

As if on a pulpit staring down at the pews,

I fulminate, my creed’s best defender,

completely transformed by this phrase from the news,

my finger on the trigger, a lit match by the fuse.

When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov Press, Asterisk Magazine, and Works in Progress.

THE SOBBING

by Alice Sims-Gunzenhauser

My father awoke one Saturday

and died as fast 

as though a bomb had fallen. 

There was no bomb, only 

the rogue rhythm 

of his heart. 

Our anguish seems so pure now,

the sobbing all turned inward. 

 

Did we understand the gift

we had been given,

to grieve without rage

or horror,

without the knowledge that 

honed malice   

had crushed beloved flesh? 

 

Would that there were a tonic

to suck out the venomous rage

of war, to leave the heartbreaks of life

untainted,

            a balm…

Alice Sims-Gunzenhauser is a visual artist and poet in New Jersey. Her art has been exhibited locally and regionally; she has had poems published in Kelsey Review and on The New Verse News. After a 43-year career working in educational assessment, she is happy to be able to dig deeper into both media. 

A TRUMP SUPPORTER

by Ralph Dranow

ANGRY POET. SUMMER 2008. From a cycle "ART FAIR AND ITS INHABITANTS" Print by Yuri Kachkin Ukraine

"Why do you like Trump?" I ask.

It's his first term.

Bill's pale forehead furrows,

bespectacled eyes twin fires.

"He's a strong leader and a successful capitalist.

I happen to like capitalism."

After a poetry reading at night,

we're drinking beer in a pizza parlor,

amidst a hum of conversation

and clatter of glasses and dishes.

We go on talking politics,

our voices civil

despite disagreeing on every issue.

But troubled, I wonder:

How can a nice, intelligent guy like Bill,

who's treated me tonight,

embrace a monster like Trump?

We part, shaking hands,

like two diplomats from countries

somewhat wary of each other,

neither friend or foe.

Later, at home, a detective in search of clues,

I reread Bill's poetry book,

and some of the lines cry out to me,

like forlorn children:

"Rage burns deeply inside me.

It always has."

"Alone and miserable.

Maybe I deserve it."

Politics fades away.

My heart opens its gates,

as I give Bill a long distance hug.

Ralph Dranow is an editor and poetry teacher.

HILARY CLINTON READS SYLVIA PLATH’S COLLECTED POEMS BEFORE HER LATEST CONGRESSIONAL TESTIMONY

by Mary Ellen Talley

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

I would no more pick up a book

of confessional poetry than 

read cautionary tales and Greek myths 

while picketing the White House in my youth.  

Vietnam was such a waste.

Why in the world am I reading Plath

when I should be boning up for Epstein testimony?

Some say my schedule was suicidal

when I was Secretary of State. I came of age early

but took Bill’s name as my own

in spite of Gloria Steinem’s dominion.

There is little value in confession; 

Whitewater just about did us in,

but see how even my daughter 

embraces our legacy. She learned the lesson 

of the ratings game and will thrive

even if her hubby’s hedge fund 

ever skims the truth. At least I’m free

to be honest. Epstein was Bill’s gig,

not mine, although I’m savvy enough to know

the more opulent connections the better, 

especially while the world goes bonkers.

Plath wrote,  It might be heaven,

This state plentitude: still in one

Gigantic tapestry…. That’s my life.

Plath’s young mental illness captures me, 

Twice that lamp of the possible.  

I believe in that.  We studied the Greeks

at Wellesley. First reading, I disliked Perseus, 

but here I am in Plath’s title,

The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering.

I refuse catastrophe. I still maintain 

more rigor than any elected sycophants.

No rigor mortis come to stiffen all creation.

If I could only sway Senators with such strong words!

But why am I reading from a woman 

who let adultery cave her in? Not me!

I’m blond. Plath brunette. Neither of us stupid.  

But she stuck her head in the oven to escape.  

How could she dare to evade

this imperfect future, this amazing challenge?    

   

Mary Ellen Talley’s poems have appeared in many journals including Louisville Review, Deep Wild, and Trampoline as well as in multiple anthologies, and three chapbooks. She resides in Seattle, WA and worked for many years as a school-based speech/language pathologist (SLP.) 

CLAMPDOWN AT DILLEY DETENTION CENTER

by Ellen Romano

Children detained at the immigrant family detention center in Dilley, Texas, speaking with ProPublica reporter Mica Rosenberg over video call. Clockwise from top left: Diana Crespo, Luka Mora, Juan Nicolas Mo, Alexander Perez, Amalia Arrieta, Mayra Delgado. Mica Rosenberg/ProPublica. Click here to donate to ProPublica.

 

Imagine the children’s drawings, 

a family of three, standing in a cage, 

a family of five, standing in a cage, their faces blank,

a family of seven lying down in a cage, labelled

with the words, me quiero ir,  I want to go home. 

 

Imagine the children’s letters,

We are kidnapped, help.

There’s an agent here, he’s watching us.

I can’t see Willi, accompanied by a picture of a pet cat.

 

On the day the art supplies are confiscated,

crayons, pencils, drawing paper,

the letters and pictures are seized as well,

portraits of friends, the tracing of a child’s hand,

tears and a frowning face in the palm,

even a five year-old’s picture of a peaked roof house,

lit from one corner by an inextinguishable sun.

 

One mother saves a handful of shredded pages,

all that is left of her daughter’s drawings. In a place

that is never warm enough, another mother hides

the drawings of as many children as she can

in the sleeves of her puffy jacket, carries them

everywhere. 

 

Imagine a government that tries to steal 

a child’s ability to imagine, imagine a five-year old

wearing a detention uniform, a replacement 

for the blue, bunny-eared jacket taken from him,

the conejo that shared his name,

 

imagine a child’s voice too dangerous to be heard,

though no louder than the sound

a crayon makes on a scrap of paper.

Author’s note: All descriptions of children's letters and art work were taken from various news articles except for the description of a five-year old's picture of a house, which as an elementary school educator I feel is quite typical.

Ellen Romano, she/her, is an educator, mother, grandmother, widow, and beekeeper living with her dog, Doc, in Hayward, California. She is the winner of Third Wednesday’s 2023 Poetry Prize, and won second place in Naugatuck River Review’s 2023 Narrative Poetry Contest. Other work has appeared in Lascaux Review, The Deadlands, december magazine, and other publications.