LEGACY LEANS IN

by Ronna Magy

 

Touring towns along the Danube, my rough Jewish boots trample cobblestone streets. Inset in sidewalks, brass stumble stones naming townsfolk murdered during World War II. Along the waters, a somber synagogue carved with perished names, marked and unmarked moss-covered graves.

At Austria’s Mauthausen concentration camp skeletal yellow-starred Jews, pink-triangled gays, Spaniards, Poles, and Russians worked until dead. Non-Aryans stacked like canned fish in barracks at winter degrees. Prisoners chiseled granite, lugged 100 lb. rocks up steep stairs. Stumblers on the “Stairs of Death,” “Parachute jumpers” flung to their deaths. Inside brick buildings, gas lines rusted concrete. Weak prisoners marched in for hot showers. Chemical death.

The camp, above town, disguised behind forested hills. Our guide reveals a letter from a neighboring farmer’s wife who objected to watching prisoners shot, then thrown off cliffs. She made this request: Could the atrocities be staged elsewhere so she wouldn’t have to see.

What happens to democracy when hatred and evil link arms? It’s not news to us what’s happening in the US.   Adelanto   Atlanta   Aurora   Bismark   Battle Creek   Brooklyn    Casper    Calexico    Chicago    Des Moines    Detroit    El Paso   Honolulu   Houston   Leavenworth   Lewisburg   Miami   New Orleans   Newark   Philadelphia  Tacoma  Youngstown. Caged migrants: 70,000  already detained.

Luis Gustavo Nunez Caceres   Luis Beltran Yanez-Cruz   Victor Manuel Diaz   Heber Sanchaz Domínguez.  All dead. An unmarked black SUV just screeched by tinted windows rolled down. Masked men shouldering guns.

Ronna Magy’s recent writings appear in SWWIM Every Day, Cholla Needles, Made From Midnight, Rise Up Review, Women in a Golden State, The Los Angeles Press, Persimmon Tree, Writers Resist, and Sinister Wisdom. An alumna of the Napa Valley Writers Conference, Ronna’s curated readings of seasoned queer women poets for the Outwrite and Circa Queer Histories Festivals. She’s a retired ESL instructor and textbook author. 

ALL IN THE FAMILY

by Alan Walowitz

Maybe you wake up cranky again, 

and the sun’s unwelcome as ever

through the broken slat in the blinds.

You holler across the hall, 

You’ve got to make something of your life.

Then, he hardly stirs when you go to shake him, 

but he tells you of his plan to kill you.

There’s no use talking it out.

No coming to some understanding.

He means it this time 

 

Sometimes, I get crazy thoughts myself—

I’m too old for this. 

What’s left of my youth

has leached out slow like air from a tire. 

How murder is where we come from, 

Cain and Abel, the Flood, and then the Golden Calf—

which was only a sign of our shared impatience.   

 

So, you take him to some tangled place

and it all unwinds like a movie,

part of you watching, and part of you 

present in a way you’ve never been.

Maybe you’re hoping some voice intervenes.

You’d gladly call it God, if the script requires, 

though you’re probably considering the headlines, 

the generations to come who might never understand. 

Or, perhaps, there is no voice. 

and it's just you, come to your senses. 

 

No matter. Chances are he’ll only remember 

a trip to the country, just a kid and his dad.

A nice enough day, the story might go, 

except for maybe this cheap device

that never would solve anything: 

the bleat of another innocent animal,  

caught in the brambles, ready or not,

to take our place.

Alan Walowitz is a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry.  His chapbook  Exactly Like Love  comes from Osedax Press.   The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems  is available from Truth Serum Press.  From Arroyo Seco Press,  In the Muddle of the Night, written with poet Betsy Mars.  The chapbook The Poems of the Air is from Red Wolf Editions and is free for downloading. 

FRENCH MEAT PIE

by Michelle Valois

 

 

French meat pie is a greasy wonder of pork, beef, and onion, filling a pie crust that is flaky and buttery. Some parts of French Canada add potatoes, some breadcrumbs. Either way, the additions were intended to stretch the meat, which you had to do if you were poor. My family used breadcrumbs.
 
My Mai Mai taught my mother and she taught me. These days, though, with one of my children vegan, I make a meatless meat pie, using mushrooms and lentils as a substitute for the meat. My relatives and other purists are appalled, but it’s actually not bad.

This vegan daughter of mine is also queer, and all three of my children are Jewish, as is my partner. I just found out that if you can prove that a grandparent was born in Canada you can apply for Canadian citizenship. If what is happening in Minnesota becomes the norm, we may just have to return to the motherland of meat pies, maple syrup, and ice hockey. I hope they won’t mind how I have tinkered with one of their national dishes in the three generations that my family has thrived in this so-called land of the free, but it appears that it is no longer free, which it never really was for people of color; now, though, it’s only free if you are white and MAGA.

My grandparents left their farms in Canada for a better life in the factories of New England. They could never have dreamed that their granddaughter would become a college professor, marry a woman, and be able to afford all the pork and beef she wants (but chooses mushrooms and lentils), the American dream come true.

My father fought fascists in Germany. He could never have dreamed that his children and grandchildren would have to fight them here on American soil, the American dream turned nightmare.

Meatless meat pie? You can make anything, really, without meat, but you can’t make a life without freedom.

Michelle Valois' work has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Florida Review, TriQuarterly, Pank, Brevity, and others. A chapbook My Found Vocabulary was published in 2017 (Aldrich). She lives in Massachusetts and teach at a community college.

THE OBLITERATOR

by Steve Rodriguez

"Supreme Leaders" by Nick Anderson

President Donald Trump has put the United States on the verge of war against Iran with the goal of ending that nation’s nuclear weapons program, less than eight months after proclaiming he had “completely and totally obliterated” that same program. —HuffPost, February 20, 2026

Back in ’71, during the spring semester of sophomore 
year, after receiving a long streak of D’s and F’s,
my geometry teacher surprises me with a quiz grade
of C+. I read the comment “good job” and for
one second revert to being a humble twerp,
suddenly contrite about previously 
disregarding each of his homework assignments.
 
Then that second passes, and I once again act
out the more familiar role of arrogant jock. 
From my seat, I shout out “Good job? Ha!  Admit it,
old man. I totally obliterated that loser quiz.” 
The bell rings.  As my fellow students depart,
I loudly repeat my point…“OBLITERATION.”  
 
Mr. Prebbles—a low IQ dope who closely
resembles one of Nixon’s crewcut aides—smiles
and responds with “I trust you have turned over
a new leaf, and that studying becomes a habit.”
I toss the quiz on his desk and demand he cross 
out the words “Good job” and replace them with something
 
like “You quite simply obliterated this quiz,”
and that the o-word be underlined with glitter. 
After mentioning the obvious—that high school 
teachers don’t stock such primary grade art supplies–
he shakes his head and asks me to leave the classroom.  
 
Later in fifth period, my English teacher  
smiles and refers to teacher lounge banter
mocking my awkward use of “hyperbole”
in math class. I tell her, “You’re no Shakespeare,” 
and that I alone will judge what is “hyperbole” 
and what can be deemed as “obliteration.”  
Miss Jones chuckles and seems to dismiss me 
as if she is both Funk and Wagnalls.
 
Not until much later in the afternoon do
I gain more clarity on the fine nuance
of language. While attempting to pitch my baseball
team to victory, I am overwhelmed by our
cross-town rivals who decide to tee off
on both my fastballs and curves, scoring ten runs in
two innings before Coach Funk yanks me away from
the mound. Yes, me!  Ace of the staff. Later, as we
 
suffer from a fifteen-run differential, and 
I am sitting disconsolate on the bench, Funk
offers me an assessment. “The last time someone 
got hit that hard was the day my B-17 
squadron obliterated Dusseldorf.” I nod,
reverting once again to that quiet, modest, 
humble self before retorting, “‘Obliterated’
may be too harsh a word.”  He snaps back, 
“Obliteration means to utterly destroy
 
or remove. From the Latin oblitteratus,
which refers to blotting out or erasing.”
Sure enough, that happens to be the last time I
pitch during my junior year. The coach finds ways
to keep me off the field. I am erased. 
Wiped off the map. Obliterated, so to speak. 
 
In the meantime, we win every remaining game 
while becoming league champions. Still, this account
is far from a lesson in adolescent humility. 
Later that summer, I devise a wicked pitch—
a breaking ball I term “The Obliterator.” 
So effective!  And I alone decide how much so.   
 

Steve Rodriguez is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher. He resides in San Diego, CA.  

X-RAYS

by Matthew Murrey

 

 

Cartoon by Iman Rezaee

‘Deliberate targeting of vital body parts’: X-rays taken after Iran protests expose extent of catastrophic injuries. Expert analysis of images from one hospital suggests severe trauma to the face, chest and genitals was caused by metal birdshot and high-calibre bullets. —The Guardian, February 17, 2026 

 

reveal the structure beneath,
miracle of how strong and fragile
I am, we are. I keep one

of my right hand with its fifth bone
broken—a now-healed ridge I still feel
after half a lifetime. And these

(sent in secret from a country
whose leaders, like so many leaders,
hate the people they rule) reveal

ghosts haunting the injured
bones. Here is one with bright dots
of birdshot fired into the face,

another with pellets peppering
the chest, and one where the target was
the tenderness between the legs.

I do not understand what I see,
am not trained to diagnose what disease   
carries a shotgun into a crowd

of unarmed souls, levels it point-blank,
and pulls the trigger.  


Matthew Murrey is the author of Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026) and Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He has recently had poems in Flyway, En•Trance, ballast, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.  

WATCHING ALYSA LIU SKATE

by Tammy Smith

It’s impossible not to yell
“That’s what I’m f**king talking about!”
knowing she nailed it.

High above the ice,
even the Quad God
can’t hide his grin.

Nothing compares
to the joy of watching
her land a triple flip.

The globe spins with that power.
Bliss like this is contagious. 
I should return to the rink. 

Dig out my old skates, 
wipe down the blades,
sharpen them. 

Leave doubt in the arena.
Lace rage tight inside leather.
Release. Rise. Glide. 

Tammy Smith is a poet and licensed clinical social worker living in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, ONE ART, Grand Little Things, Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.

CATALOGUING OUR NAMES

by Karen Marker

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Homeland Security Wants Social Media Sites to Expose Anti-ICE Accounts. —The New York Times, February 13, 2026


Still in the down of the dream world a text 
comes from Mona that says you are so brave
which means she must have seen my Facebook post 
about ICE and knows of the threats made 
about collecting names. I also named 
the commandment from Exodus about how 
we should treat the stranger. 

Such a long list of us, once strangers ourselves. 
Will they record our names, imprison all of us, 
including the thirteen-year-old who read the torah portion 
and the rabbi who said all who want to take a stand rise
and come up for the blessings?  No one was left in their seats.  
We were packed so tight together, all of us touching 
someone who was touching the parchment, another name 
for light holding the words like a mother. Like the mother 
who stood beside me holding her child 

with deep brown eyes staring straight into my eyes.
She didn’t look away from my tearing up 
like I can’t look away from what keeps me awake 
at night thinking of the children in the prison camps,
the names I need to speak so I won’t forget.
Receiving blessings, touching light, 
we were one breathing body.  

What can I text Mona that will soothe her fear
for the dark skin she got from her Indian Hindu 
father, her Mizrachi Jewish mother?  Even 
with her credentials that made her a top doctor
specialist, gave her a beautiful suburban life, 
she’s still afraid for her son and tells me she couldn’t 
survive without her medicines, not one day 
in that prison camp and I admit I’m just as scared 
of being sent away. It’s all that’s unhealed 

that makes us even more afraid.  It is the cage,
the chains, the clanging doors of our brains, 
how the past climbs back up and casts us out. 
But now Mona is calling, telling me how
everyone’s been working so hard in Ohio, like one
family.  At least for today there’s a stay by the judge, 
the Haitians in Springfield are safe.

    
Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry of protest and hope in response to the news will be coming out as a book in the coming year.  Her poetry has appeared in NVN and various other journals including The MacGuffin, The Monterey Poetry Review, the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Slant, and WordPeace. Her book of flash memoir and poetry Beneath the Blue Umbrella is available through Finishing Line Press and explores resilience in face of family trauma.  

A NIGHTMARE OF COLOR

by Dick Altman

 

 

As reports come out across the country of Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents detaining Native Americans, a couple dozen New Mexico lawmakers are pushing a bill that would allow tribal citizens to update their state-issued IDs to reflect their enrollment status. House Bill 20 would give people enrolled in a federally recognized tribe the option to request a “distinguishing mark” identifying them as Native American on their driver’s license or other identification cards. A similar law passed in Arizona last year went into effect in January. On a sample license posted online by that state’s Motor Vehicle Division, “Native American” is written on the bottom left side of the card. —New Mexico In Depth, February 12, 2026

Northern New Mexico

In my mind

it begins,

a Pow Wow

of dance,

chant,

drum,

lofting

my Anglo dreams

to heights

of ritual

more ancient

than Columbus.

Despite the festive air,

masked figures,

I don’t

recognize as Native,

badged and holstered,

lurk in the shadows,

beyond

the drum circle—

waiting.

*

I try to sense,

living as I do,

in Indian Country,

what you,

a Native American,

feel like

awakening now

to a face

in the mirror,

that greets

morning’s light,

not with a smile,

but fear

your complexion,

perhaps only a shade

darker than mine,

might find you

in ICE’s

angry grasp,

two steps away

from expulsion.

*

Identity docs,

once sacred sources

of pride,

and connection,

sat vaulted

in your tribal home,

rarely,

if ever,

in need

of exposure,

to the world

outside.

Now,

I’m told,

you dare not leave

the reservation,

without

your paper shields

of origin.

*

Your biggest fear—

how could I not feel

the same—

likely separation

from your children,

an old fear,

dating back

to early last

century,

when federal agents,

as if yesterday,

drag off

Native offspring

to attend

schools,

to acquire

more “whiteness”.

A curriculum

leading often

to forced labor

and early death,

as history’s

numerous

graves attest.

*

I hesitate,

these days,

to stroll

the town square,

birthed

and sustained

by Puebloans

like  yourself,

long before

the arrival

of Europeans.

I reel,

with broken heart,

as ICE grabs you

off the street,

to challenge

your sovereign right,

stretching back

a thousand years,

to call America

home.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 290 poems, published on four continents.

TO ALL THE IMPRISONED CHILDREN

by Julie Weiss

Hold on. You´re a rabbit, clever

and bold, galloping free through

tomorrow´s boundless grasslands.

Hold on. You´re the most extraordinary

lotus, blooming through cracks

in your country´s polar ice caps.

Hold on. They may have grounded

your body, but your mind

can fly a thousand glorious kites

in the rising winds of resistance.

Your will, sharp enough to slice

a prison guard´s insults into fluff.

Hold on. Right now, you may feel

more like a beetle climbing

a mountain under a crush of boots

than anything human, but you´re not

alone. You´re the song we sing

when the notes in our throat

have lumped impossibly together.

You´re the rainbow colors we use

to airbrush our hope across the sky.

You’re the poem we bellow at every

demonstration. Imagine! Your beauty

flowing in epic proportions.

You´re our brightest star, the one

that anchors us to our place

in the universe. Hold on. Without you,

we´d all be hurled deep into space.

Julie Weiss (she/her) is the author of The Places We Empty, her debut collection, and two chapbooks, The Jolt and Breath Ablaze: Twenty-One Love Poems in Homage to Adrienne Rich, Volumes I and II. Her second collection Rooming with Elephants was published in February, 2025. She was a finalist for Best of the Net, won Sheila-Na-Gig´s editor´s choice award, and was a finalist for the Saguaro Prize. Recent work appears in ONE ART, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Gyroscope Review, and is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, The Indianapolis Review, MER, and SWWIM. She lives with her wife and children in Spain. 

CALL REVEILLE! HE'S DREAMING OF WAR

by Darrell Petska

 

 

 

 

Peace is boring.
I’ll start a war.
Putin did it.
I can too.
Gaza’s done.
Ukraine soon.
My Department of War needs war,
a big beautiful war with bombs and booms
and bloodied bodies.

Peace is for wusses.
I’m mighty, so—
eeny, meeny, miny, moe,
shall I make war with
Mexico? Bad hombres.
Canada? Really nasty.
Minneapolis? Joking, just a warm-up.
Who said Iran?
(Thank you, Netanyahu)
I declare war on Iran!
Strike up the band!
Commence the killing!
Name it after me.

Epstein? Who’s that? Old news. I’m innocent.
Just think about war. So easy to make, I might make more.
Peace is boring unless there’s money in it for me.

(Someone pinch me when this meeting is over.) 

 

 

Darrell Petska is a retired university engineering editor and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry appears in 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Chiron Review, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine, and widely elsewhere online and in print (conservancies.wordpress.com). Father of five and grandfather of seven, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years. 

THE STRANDED CITY

by Iman Oshani

 

 

Tehran skyline at sunset, with the city's iconic Milad Tower rising in the distance, January 2026 —Iran International

 

The smell of gunpowder

lingers for a lifetime.

And in this land,

the snow migrated last year.

Car washes are shut down,

and cars won't move under the weight of ash.

Houses are drained of commotion.

The bedroom.

A large bed.

Sheets neatly made, but gathering dust.

The desk clock faces the wall.

And on the floor,

lies the only corpse: a fly.

The phone will not ring.

The TV is locked on the news.

And behind the window, there is no view...

except

a dog walking by,

sniffing the holes in the buildings.

Iman Oshani is an Iranian writer and poet based in Tehran. His work explores the surreal intersections of memory, objects, and the geography of crisis.

SUPREME COURT PRESIDENTIAL BACKLASH LIMERICK

by Paul A. Freeman

The New York Times

Said Donald Trump: “Let me be candid,
because the Supreme Court has handed
a ruling down I 
believe is awry, 
SCOTUS is hereby disbanded.”

 
Paul A. Freeman is the author of The Movement, a dystopia-Americana novel set in a future United States. It is available from Amazon as an ebook download and as a paperback. His first book, Rumours of Ophir, a crime novel taught at ‘O’ level in Zimbabwean high schools, was also translated into German. In addition to having two novels, a children’s book and an 18,000-word narrative poem (Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers!) commercially published, Paul Freeman is the author of numerous published short stories, poems, plays and articles. He works and resides in Mauritania, Africa.