DELETE AFTER READING

by Celeste DeSario 

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

My friends say,
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.

Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist 
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching. 
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover 

But I can’t. 
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen— 
ten fingers, no illusions about me…

I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand 
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view. 
I’m too afraid to look…

Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet 
just to fill the tank, 
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.

Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch 
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?

Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.

Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?

Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card 
was ripped open before reaching its destination

No. It didn’t work.

And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms, 
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again. 
The long lines, the lack of butter. 
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.

Those kids were patriots.

Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.

I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer.  A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform 
for those of us who need it. 

Especially need it.
Today.
Now.

More than ever.

Celeste DeSario enjoys breaking down big political illusions while also writing about personal grit and artistic passion. Her recent work appears in The New Verse News, The Dissident Voice, The Changing Times, The SportScribe, and The Ekphrastic Review. This portfolio includes sharp political satires like “There are Monsters Under My Bed”, "I’m the MAGA Dream Girl”, "The Peeling of American Flag Blue," and “I Ran,” alongside reflective pieces like "Bridging and Grappling," "A Leap of Affirmation,” and “Gaudi's Unbending Vision".

THE LAND REMEMBERS THEIR NAMES

by Ahmed Dremly 

The ground was silent that morning.

Not empty—

silent.

It carried beneath its chest

the weight of a family,

the dreams of children,

the hands of mothers,

the footsteps of those

who once walked upon it.

The sky stood above Gaza,

wide and uncertain,

as if even the heavens

did not know where to place their grief.

After one thousand and ninety-nine days,

the earth opened her hands.

Not to take them,

but to return them.

One hundred and twelve souls

from the Abu Sharia family

rose from beneath the rubble—

doctors,

engineers,

mothers,

fathers,

children,

infants.

A whole family

written back into the memory of the land.

Gaza did not receive bodies that day.

She received names.

A mother of five stood on a rooftop,

holding flowers,

candies,

and the tears she could not hide.

She called to the sky:

Long live the martyrs.

A child who lost both parents

looked through a broken window.

The world was shattered before his eyes,

yet his voice remained:

For you, Palestine.

A man who survived

the death of everyone he loved

carried the remains of his family—

bones, photographs, memories.

He carried a universe

inside his wounded hands.

And he said:

The martyrs do not die.

An uncle who buried fifteen hearts

raised his voice:

Allah Akbar.

Not as a farewell,

but as a promise.

This land knows our footsteps.

This soil knows our names.

We live here.

We die here.

The streets of Gaza filled again.

Not only with mourning,

but with thousands of hands

reaching for the flag-covered bodies,

fighting for the honor

of carrying those

who carried Gaza before them.

Coffee was poured beside graves.

Stories were shared beside ruins.

And every wound

opened another memory.

Today,

the rubble has finally spoken.

It returned the last words

of those who rested beneath it.

Those who protected the earth,

and were protected by it.

Today, Gaza wears her grief

like an ancient dress.

And the land whispers:

They were never buried beneath me.

They were planted.

And I will remember their names.

Author’s note: The poem was inspired by the funeral held today for 112 members of the Abu Sharia family in Gaza, whose remains were recovered from beneath the rubble more than two years after they were killed. 308 members of the family were killed, while the remains of only 112 have been recovered. They were my neighbors, and I knew many of them personally.

Ahmed Dremly is a journalist from Gaza whose writings have appeared in Middle East Eye, Mondoweiss, The Electronic Intifada, The Intercept, Al-Monitor, and other publications. He is currently studying in Italy after leaving Gaza in May 2026.

YELLOW FINCH

by Tara Menon

A yellow finch with blacks stripes on wings

stands on what’s left of a yellow zinnia.

The yellow finch explodes like the sun

after the rain and gloom of the day’s news.

I don’t bury my head in the sand.

The world throbs its troubles

and I feel its accelerated pulse.

The wars, the famines, the wildfires,

and zooming in, the family tragedy

of a woman, dedicated to her three children,

who strangled them when her husband 

went to fetch pizza. She leaped to the ground

from a second-story window, 

hoping for death, only to end up paralyzed

and put on trial.

It’s bad enough immigrants are put behind bars,

killed or handed trumped up charges.

It’s bad enough Black men are killed

for routine traffic violations.

Mothers with postpartum psychosis 

are taken to trial and some are imprisoned

when they should be treated in hospitals.

The tragedy of lost children is compounded.

The yellow finch. The yellow finch.

The explosion of yellow on yellow.

Tara Menon is an Indian-American writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. She is a two-time finalist for the Willow Run Poetry Book Award. Her latest poems have appeared in Gray Sparrow Journal, The New Verse News, The Sucharnochee Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Blue Heron Review.

THE OLYMPICS OF TESTIMONY

by Elaine Sorrentino

He’s given no warmup.

Tossed into the arena
with hungry litigants,
he pulls a timeline of horror
from under his fingernails,
pain mired in memory,
entertainment for the bloodthirsty.

From inside the stadium
and in front of home screens,
spectators judge the recounter
as he details the unforgiveable:

“Where are the kids?”
“They’re in the basement.”

His head remains in the lion's jaws,
he’s questioned over and over
until he's bloodied and defeated
and they are satisfied.

You may leave the witness stand now.

Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, The New Verse News, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Sparks of Calliope, Sheila-Na-Gig, Poetry Porch, Ekphrastic Review, and Haikuniverse. She is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle in Duxbury, MA.

USED BOOKS FOR SALE

by Brydon Caldwell

As developers race to build more powerful AI models, and lawsuits over copyright mount, a cottage industry has sprung up to supply them with millions of physical books that are stripped apart, scanned into training datasets, and discarded. —Yahoo! Finance, July 29, 2026. AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

Soft, almost like felt,

worn down by so

many different thumbs.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

A warm smell with

just a hint of must,

memories of comfort.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Words carefully arranged,

adjusted, revised just so,

telling a narrative.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Knowledge, hard won,

meant to be shared,

illustrated clearly.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Cultural threads woven

together to patch  

gaps in society.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Lone voices calling

from the past, trying

to share themselves.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

What cost will we pay

when the future devours

the past?

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest.  His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.

AT THE VIGIL

by Jac-Lynn Stark 

On an evening when dark clouds 

forming overhead threaten to release 

their tears down to this world

I venture out to Lynn District Court

to gather with others who care about people 

of this city abducted at traffic stops 

on their way to work or in 

some other every day situation that 

most of us don’t have to fear

at least not yet

 

Earlier that day I lurked in courthouse hallways

observing two men who looked oh so ordinary

in their jeans and khakis, t-shirts, sneakers

but we know who they work for and why they are here

we know their license plates and their objectives

we know the violence within them 

that I watched on recordings a woman I met showed me

 

Now groups of us gather under gloomy skies

a mix of skin color and languages

of ages and experiences 

from a variety of neighborhoods

 

A long table holds photographs of men 

whose wives are now alone

whose children miss their fathers

candles and flowers adorn this table of sorrow

as we witness people telling their stories

 

One young woman gets up to speak

two children holding her hands

her pink-clad daughter hides shyly behind her

her 11-year-old son strong and serious next to her

in his white t-shirt that says Let’s Taco About It

he takes the microphone and talks about his father

how much he misses him

how worried he is

he thanks us for being there

 

Oh young warrior, only 11, but not afraid to speak up

I think of my grandparents leaving Poland

I think of the poem on the Statue of Liberty:

“give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

I think of these lines from Warsan Shire: 

“no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark”

 

Oh America, what have we become?

 

 

Jac-Lynn Stark was born in the Bronx and lives north of Boston where she enjoys pondering life either from near the ocean or in the woods. She recently retired from 14 years of teaching English at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Her work has been published in Maintenant 19, A Journal of Dada Writing and Art; Orange is not a colour, Poems against totalitarianism; American Graveyard, calls to end gun violence, and others. She is a proud granddaughter of immigrants and a volunteer with LUCE Immigrant Justice Network of Massachusetts.