FINE LINES

by Kathryn Spratt 

My husband hates the Lindsay Clancy case.

Why must I bring it up again?

It's not like

I'm her.

I take one

pill to keep me sweeping up cheerios

when they fall on the floor. 

It's not like

I thought my friend was her

when I said

You drop off your baby girl

anytime.

No judgement.

No questions asked.

I need him to help me carry the horror

like he might a bag of dog food.

Open this can of peaches, please.

Reach the top shelf

of my heartsick disbelief.

That’s it, isn’t it?

It's not like

I feel an urge to kill the infant-

ilization of my kind,

to be the woman’s voice

in a tired man’s head

hissing, We can be killers like

we can be astronauts, engineers,

mothers, doctors,

and even

circus tightrope walkers.

We can murder.

Otherwise, we’re all

little girls

tiptoeing on exercise bands

spread flat on basement floors.

Kathryn Spratt teaches and writes in a quiet corner of the Western United States. Her poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review, Rat's Ass Review, and elsewhere. She has been honored with a first place Brilliant Poetry competition award and an Eleanore B. North Poetry Award. 

I WILL SPEAK FOR YOU, MY DEAR

by Judy Juanita

I will speak for you, my dear

since nobody seems to have heard of you 

even now that Gloria Steinem is dead

I see you trembling as he punched you with his fist

I see you hit the kitchen floor after he knocked you down

in front of us, his children

I hear him curse you over and over

when he lost at the racetrack

I feel the broomstick on my back 

when his fury at his losing horse boiled over

I will speak for you, my mother

since nobody has heard of you 

even now that Gloria Steinem is dead

I see that faint scar on your lip 

that he put there with a fireplace tong

I cannot unsee him knocking you down 

for hitchhiking to get the laundry done

I cannot delete the moment you woke up 

being raped in the marital bed

As Luenell said of Bill Cosby, that’s like fucking a corpse

I will speak for you, my dear

since nobody seems to hear you 

I hear him berate you for 20 minutes when he thought I had hung up

I hear his son tell him not to talk to his mother that way

Who will speak for you now that Gloria Steinem is dead?

I see him raping your young niece while you commute to work everyday

I read my Malaysian student’s essay on constant rape by her brother

I hear my Burmese/Chinese student tell of being raped repeatedly by the older brother 

who now berates her for being too woke

I will speak for you, my sisters

since nobody has heard of you 

and Gloria Steinem has died

I will speak for you, my sister in Savannah

who never grew your hair after the boy cuzzin raped you 

and cut off your long braid

An apology is a keloid 

after the fact

after the act

this ain’t apology

Gloria Steinem, the pretty white girl

In aviator glasses posing as a playboy bunny

never apologized

So I will speak for you, my dears

as we stand in woundedness

more than pretty in our unprettiness

brave in our cancerous bodies

solemn in our widow black wool

standing up to our lessers

who lie taller even in coffins or wrapped in Muslim cloth

finally apologetic

but still more respected 

more mourned 

more listened to

I have to speak for those who have borne the lash

otherwise our cries will be treated as complaint 

and shouts of aggression

I have to speak for those who have suffered the most

because Gloria Steinem and every single white woman 

who defied the patriarchy were buffers

Their grace served all and served well

Being beaten, being murdered, being swindled out of money or emotion, 

being harangued, serving prison time for any of these grievous acts,

are the grimmer, graceless realities that women of color face

I will speak for you, my dears

Judy Juanita’s latest books are California Fever Dream: A Memoir (Willow) and a pro-choice look at abortion, Abortion (or Woman as Threefold Murderess). Her poetry collection Manhattan my ass, you’re in Oakland won the American Book Award in 2021. In her semi-autobiographical novel Virgin Soul, (Viking, 2013), the protagonist joins the Black Panther Party in the sixties in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her collection of short stories The High Price of Freeways won the 2021 Tartt Fiction Award (Livingston, 2022). Her latest book of poetry GAWDZILLA equates the filmic Godzilla to US imperialism, racism, and sexism. Her collection of essays DeFacto Feminism: Essays Straight Outta Oakland came out in 2016.

HAS AOC BECOME THE JULIA CHILD OF EGG-FREEZING?

by Elane Gutterman

AOC* unscrambles the myths, fears,

and unknowns about egg 

harvesting and freezing.

Eight years ago, waiting tables,

she could not have considered 

this American luxury—

a benefit covered as health care 

served mostly free to all women in France.

 

In each video she posts to social media,

AOC speaks from the heart,

with no notes,

as she sets out her medication vials,

fills each syringe,

and plunges the essential brews

into her belly.

She’s exhibit A in her resolve

to avoid aproning over weeks of cringy jabs,

painful bloating, and an uncertain harvest.

 

She’s sharing the recipe

for expanding childbearing 

choices and years.

Her openness and folksy banter

have stirred up interest,

perhaps the demand

to whisk away barriers and costs. 

Has AOC become the Julia Child

of egg retrieval and freezing?

 

She needs no soufflé!

*Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, U.S. Representative for New York

Elane Gutterman is a health researcher, whose poems have been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize. Her first book of poetry, Tides of Expectation, was published in 2022 (Kelsay Books). A number of young women she knows and loves have frozen their eggs—she is grateful to AOC for her courage, activism, and moving explanations.

DEATH OF A FRIEND

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

The death of the orangutan named Sampurna was confirmed Thursday by the West Kalimantan Natural Resources Conservation Agency (BKSDA) in Borneo. 

Sampurna the orangutan has died

You may not have known him in life

But you will perhaps 

Know him in death

 

A male orangutan who was being monitored

By a wildlife rescue organization

He was at home in an Indonesian rainforest

When it caught fire

 

As the fire raged on and on

It filled with toxic smoke

Which Sampurna and all his neighbors

Could not help but breathe

 

After several days of poisonous inhalations

Sampunrna was found wheezing and choking

In a dry roadside ditch

Unable to stand

 

Rescue workers tried to help

They lifted him from the ditch

Gave him oxygen 

Told him he was going to get better

 

But he did not get better

The struggle for each labored breath

Grew more and more difficult until

Sampurna died

 

Of course his death was emblematic

Of the deadly effects of the climate catastrophe

That is wreaking havoc with life

On planet Earth

 

But his death was also the death

Of a singular being, 

A fellow creature, a unique self 

A brother to all of us, a friend

Buff Whitman-Bradley podcasts his poetry at thirdactpoems.podbean.com .

SORROW OF SIRIK

a wedding requiem

by Nolan Sahand Dannels

they heard the jets before arriving

the kids came to revel with the rest

but now

with immeasured breaths

they stumble ‘cross the bricks

that broke all ‘round them

now surrounded

by the faces of lost loved ones

encircling their heads in midair 

no matter how hard

they close their eyes

no matter how soft

those voices still are

no matter how wide

they extend their arms

no matter how narrow

they squint with eyes

made squalid by knowing

the greatest weight of sorrow

by way of sight

by way of thought

by way of love

joy hope compassion

they heard the jets before arriving

but the kids and the rest still knew

this wasn’t supposed to happen

perhaps enough of the world does too

perhaps most already understand enough

while the rest don’t want to

all our heartaches ablaze in some way

tender to the touch

but too sharp to shut

when the fire wants to stay

wants to burn within us

all the while and all the longer

so we say what we may

knowing it won’t make us stronger

but at least our words and thoughts

can love our lost with honest honor

pinching the kids’ smiling cheeks

as their faces float around us

now surrounded

by worlds and worlds and worlds

holding what we could have been

that sorrow can’t be explained

only understood within

Sirik knows

Minab knows

and many more do too

as you may have guessed

the sorrow burns through the heart

before it makes its way out the eyes

lachrymose and drenched

like a fire that can’t put itself out

no matter how many tears are wept

like a love that must live on

because love is all we have left

they heard the jets before arriving

the kids came to revel with the rest

and then

the jets struck as they went

sticks and stones hitting homes

before they returned to their nest

Nolan Sahand Dannels is a Persian American writer-musician and Best of the Net nominee with a Master's in English Language and Literature from the University of Edinburgh and a Literature PhD from UC San Diego, where he served as the Editor in Chief of Alchemy. His writing has appeared in Kissing Dynamite, Trouvaille Review, Wishbone Words, The New Verse News, Qafiyah Review, San Antonio Review, and elsewhere. His music appears in Hare's Paw Literary Journal. His poetry chapbook, Horizontal Ensemble, was published by Bottlecap Press in 2025.

THE EMPTY CELL

by Lynn White

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

Bosnian Serb war criminal Mladić commemorated in Belgrade, but no state honours: Thousands are expected at Mladić's burial in Belgrade on Monday, which will proceed without serving officials, artillery salutes or ceremonial military presence. Brussels has said earlier any glorification would be "incompatible with the values on which the EU path is built". Mladić died last week while serving a life sentence for genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity during the war in Bosnia. His remains were flown to Serbia from The Hague on a government plane on Thursday. —EuroNews, September 5, 2026

The Butcher is dead.

His meat decayed bones

broken

burned

buried

now waiting

for him to follow.

His cell is empty

waiting gravely

for those

whose meat 

is fresh

blood

and bones

broken

burned

buried

sometimes in rubble

always in the rubble of words.

So we wait

wanting

them

to be unearthed

the earth

made empty

as the cell

waiting 

for the ones

who are chosen.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

DESPITE THE WRECKING BALL (ROOM)

by Indran Amirthanayagam

Cartoon by Dave Whamond

I celebrate you, reader, and me

despite the chaos, despite 

the willful neglect

of the public purse, 

despite the murder

without trial,

the rounding up 

like cattle, 

the callous disregard

for public health,

the spreading

of snake oil beliefs,

United States

in loathing, lurching

towards ruin

but somehow

surviving 

still despite 

jabbering

and chipping

away at 

all due process

by this monster

who came in 

elected

to the erstwhile

People’s 

House

to make

room

for a

wrecking ball.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes a Substack. He has just published Isla itinerante ( Editorial Apogeo, Peru, 2025) and White Space Sonnets ( Sarasavi publishers, Sri Lanka, 2025). His other publications include El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores), Seer (Hanging Loose Press),The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil), Powèt Nan Pò A: Poet of the Port (Mad Hat), and Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (Broadstone Books). He is the translator of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books) and Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube, and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.