SURVIVOR’S GUILT

by Sarah Fitzpatrick

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

8:47 a.m., the world is a siren. The train folds down its newspapers in unison. A thousand dominos clack to impossible silence. Playbills flutter into ash. Billboards tie themselves into prayer flags screaming past a capsule sealed against the miasma of falling towers. A new infant surfaces to gasp blue light. Mother’s breasts engorge with the fair-weather clouds beyond the cesarean drape. Someone is screaming down the hall. The willows of Central Park shudder the sign language of calamity. The molten core of Earth constricts. The trees understand it as music. 

Saved by a teacher conference, your feet give way. You’ve stayed an enormous golden pendulum, its wire dusted with powdered glass. Enraged muscles conspire to squeeze until your tender hand is empty of blood. It runs to colorize the sidewalks of a ghastly silent movie screened only in Manhattan. The city as monolith, a scientist’s constant. The pendulum is a false prophet. You become the fixed point. Transfuse time back into the veins of every paramedic, every finance worker, every new mother, every suicide bomber. Steal back all that is magnetized by the core. Give back the seasons to the trees.

Sara Fitzpatrick works in animal welfare in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her poetry and fiction have been published in places like Merion West, Jet Fuel Review, X-R-A-Y, and Tampa Review. A collection, Bury me in the Sky, was published in 2020 by Nixes Mate Books.

COME HOME!

by Ana Doina

“Come home, my love, come home!” I beg

on the phone. “Where are the kids?” you ask 

hurriedly. “Phil is at school, Al was 

late for class again, and is now stuck

in traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel

on the Jersey side.”

“Thank God for that,” you sigh. 

 

On William Street, your office’s windows 

three blocks from the Towers, allow you 

a full view of the conflagration. “I see them,”

you whisper mournfully, “burning 

like two Roman Candles. Last year this time,” 

you say, “I was there, on the ninetieth floor, 

meeting with a client.” I grip my cell phone 

and try to keep my wits, but tears are streaming 

on my face, and my mind is racing to find

a way to get you home. 

 

“The South Tower is struggling,” you say.

“I don’t think it can stand much longer.” 

The certainty in your voice makes me realize

yours is not a guess but the professional opinion

of an engineer. “Lord, there could be over 

fifty thousand people there. I can see flames 

going floor by floor, charring everything. 

 

The building trembles; glass is busting out, 

concrete, pulverized, cascades from it, 

and fragments float away like flakes. It sputters 

smoke and sparks. It’s going to pancake.”

 

“Come home! Get out of there,” I sob. 

All of a sudden, there is a tremendous boom, 

and the phone line goes dead. 

Author’s note: The phone lines in that part of Manhattan were destroyed at that exact time. My husband made it home that day. It took him many hours walking through the singed streets, the clouds of soot, and falling debris, frightened and angry like the rest of us. The poem’s dialogue is almost word by word the conversation I had with my husband at the time the towers were burning.

Ana Doina’s work has appeared in numerous national and international print and online magazines, anthologies, and textbooks. Her chapbook, The Later Generation, published by Kelsay Books, and her full-length book of poems, Legend of Bread, published by Legacy Press Books, were released in 2024. Her book Coming to America: Stories and Essays, to be published by Histria Books, is scheduled for release in October 2026. 

NO SOAP

by Thomas R. Smith

There is nothing in nature comparable to soap. —Francis Ponge, “Soap” trans. Lane Dunlop 

What a filthy Presidentiad! —Walt Whitman, “To the States”

In August 2026 several sailors aboard the US aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln, despondent over deteriorating conditions of hygiene on the ship after nearly nine months deployed without relief in the Arabian Sea in President Trump’s war on Iran, were reported to have attempted suicide.

1.

In 1943 France, during

the Nazi occupation, the poet

Francis Ponge began his book-length poem

in praise of soap.  Awakening to the beauty,

not to mention necessity, of that

familiar cleansing agent by wartime

shortages he and his fellow resistance

fighters experienced at their rural

hideouts, Ponge hailed the humble bar of soap

as “Magic stone” and thoroughly, lovingly

detailed its dissolution through use

down to its voluble finish.  Thus he made

his little book a shrine to the gift of

cleanliness we tend to take for granted.

2.

We may ask ourselves, what if there was a poet, 

a Ponge on board the USS Abraham

Lincoln likewise honoring the objects

of that crew’s deprivations over months without

leave stationed in the Arabian Sea?  

Running out of soap, deodorant, toothpaste, 

enduring moldy showers and backed-up toilets

among the miseries that pushed a handful 

of the five-thousand-plus men jammed into

that floating prison to literally jump ship

to end it, having also reached Ponge’s

conviction that there is nothing in nature

comparable to soap, would he have turned in

despair to the unsuds’d water of the sea?

3.

Ponge’s soap shortage came as a sacrifice

in the fight against German fascism, while

the sailors of the Abraham Lincoln suffered

only for a war of choice the president

engineered to distract from his other

crimes.  In this he was surely following

the playbook of the fascists Ponge’s

generation paid so dearly to defeat,

of waging war against one’s own people.  

No doubt the real injury to the men of

the Abraham Lincoln was the shortage of meaning

in their ordeal.  Ship of shame left in neglect

by a president so filthy there’s not

enough soap on earth to scrub clean his name.

Thomas R. Smith’s recent books are a poetry collection Medicine Year (Paris Morning Publications) and a prose work Poetry on the Side of Nature: Writing the Nature Poem as an Act of Survival (Red Dragonfly Press). He lives in western Wisconsin near the Kinnickinnic River.

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.