SHOP STILL OPEN?

by Alex Stolis

Can’t imagine what she felt. 

When I was five I got lost

in a train station. My whole body

shook from the inside. 

I wet myself. 

Wasn’t ashamed. 

I’m sure she had it worse. 

Can’t imagine what she smelled. 

I worked at a nursing home 

inhaling shit, piss, vomit—

tasting the stink of death. 

Held my breath

Used Vicks. 

I’m sure she can’t forget. 

Can’t imagine what she saw. 

During withdrawal

I’d wake up sober. Felt certain 

I was still drunk. 

I had visions. 

Believed them. 

Hers are worse. 

Can’t imagine what she heard. 

My parents fought with fists.

Called us mistakes. 

What we never heard

Shop still open?

Yeah

Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections, Pop. 1280 and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Ekphrastic Review, Louisiana Literature Review, Burningwood Literary Journal, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife was released by Louisiana Literature Press, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres in by Bottlecap Press. He lives in upstate New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.

10 OCTOBER 2026 VERNACULAR

by Joe Couture

Furnace oil’s 2.20 a litre ‘nd the world’s gettin’ colder ‘nd it’s ‘neath the thumb uva megalomaniac paedo, so ya try ta escape in this mind-numbin’ screen ‘nd the first thing ya read—after bombs, gena-cide, ‘nd stocks—is another plague, ‘nd a headline ‘bout seven over-privileged rapists, somethin’ ‘bout an arsehole who spells Megan with a y, ‘nd the US is murderin’ some guy they'd trained ta kill others ‘nd they’re goin’ ta do it livestream, which isn’t at all surprisin’, ‘nd oil’s 2.20 a litre ‘nd risin’, ‘nd soon it’ll be cold inside, ‘nd my hometown was busted before this, so I wonder how many kids who talk like mine’ll freeze this holiday season.

Joe Couture lives in rural Nova Scotia. He is the author of work published in NYU's Washington Square Review, The Gorko Gazette, Mad Swirl, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions 2027.

REPLAY

by Shawn Aveningo Sanders

by Irochka at Dreamstime

I woke up this morning clawing

and writhing—sheets tangled

like arms that held me down. 

I hate it when I wake up this way:

on my back. 

But the news of the Cornell 7

had seeped into my sleep. The dream

a surreal game of Spin the Bottle.

I was the bottle. 

Dizzied, it was all Greek to me.

I try to shrug it off, smoothing

out sheets and brushing my teeth

like any other morning. 

How’d you sleep? my husband asks. 

I am not in the mood to swap dreams. 

We watch Klepper and Kimmel

make jokes on more palatable topics:

Trump’s rebranding of Intelligence,

an inept senator’s show-n-tell,

a loveable Mexican sidekick learning

to dance like a star. I’m grateful

Jane Doe isn’t spun into punchlines,

her story too close to my own

(and why I was afraid to report it).

At nineteen, the joke was on me

that night I learned how brotherhood

is a bond stronger than a conscience. 

Editor’s note: The New Verse News is honored to continue to host, in the wake of the news at Cornell, a series of courageous memoir poems.

Shawn Aveningo Sanders shares the creative life with her husband in Oregon, running The Poetry Box press. Her poems have recently appeared in Rattle, ONE ART, contemporary haibun online, Sheila-Na-Gig, Jackdaw Review, Gyroscope Review, and the award-winning anthology, Love Is for All of Us. Shawn is a multiple Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Touchstone Award nominee and has won prizes from the Oregon Poetry Association. Her newest book Pockets (MoonPath Press) was a finalist in Concrete Wolf’s Chapbook Contest. When not writing, find her shopping for a new pair of red shoes or toy dinosaurs for her granddaughter,

HERSTORY

by MaryLisa DeDomenicis

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

I was only sixteen
when my best friend’s 
father stuck his hands up
my shirt and his tongue 
down my throat.

I was terrified to tell her
yet somehow she knew 
so I didn’t have to.

After my best friend’s father 
I never went braless.
Never mind I was donned 
in a thick crewneck sweatshirt—

He saw something
He wanted.

You don’t even have to be 
beautiful.
You only have to be
a girl.

Editor’s note: The New Verse News is honored to continue to host, in the wake of the news at Cornell, a series of courageous memoir poems.

A Best of the Net and Best New Poets (2026) nominee and NJSCA fellow, MaryLisa studied poetry at Stockton University. A three-time Pushcart nominee, her poems have won two Murphywriting awards, a Toni Brown Memorial Scholarship Award, and a Stillwaters Woman’s Words Chapbook competition. She’s had work published by Rattle, The American Journal of Poetry, and Mudfish, among others and her poems can be found in several anthologies including most recently Screaming Beyond Borders, a Woman Scream Series. 

CORNELL

by L. Roger Owens

ID 49525974 ©Chengusf | Dreamstime.com

Would it have made her day
easier, the day she scrolled Instagram
during Chem II, during lunch, during
AP Lang, during band, the day she read
the news of a gang rape two years ago,
would she have been prepared had we
sat her down—and at what age, 3, 7, 13?—
and told her of men who do not consider
her body her own, of men who fly planes
into towers, of men who tie bombs
to railroad tracks, of powerful men
who launch missiles into girls schools,
of men who believe her body to be
the plane, the towers, the train, the school
and her life potential charred debris
to be forgotten amidst their boasting?
But she already knew of these men,
the Epsteins, Weinsteins, the boys
sitting next to her in class who
might grow into them. And she wasn’t
prepared—how could she have been?
As I tucked her in that night, she said,
“I hate school,” said, “I want to go home,”
and of course she was home.
But I knew what she meant.

 
L. Roger Owens teaches spirituality, ministry, and creative writing at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. He is an MFA student at Ashland University.

IF WE TALKED ABOUT MEN THE WAY WE TALK ABOUT PIT BULLS

a found poem 

by Beth Winegarner

Nearly two weeks after a brutal dog attack in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood, Amber King said she is still coping with the physical and emotional trauma of the incident while beginning a long recovery process… King recalled yelling for help as a pit bull pinned her down and attacked her for 10 to 15 minutes before police arrived. —KGO, September 22, 2026

Once it tasted blood

it may have been difficult to handle.

When raised in loving and stable homes, 

they can be incredibly gentle, affectionate, 

and loyal companions. 

Being laser-focused on the target 

until it is dead or they are dead 

is literally what they were bred for.

Luckily, they are very responsive to training 

and eager to please.

Mauling is hardwired 

in their DNA.

I have one. He’s big, neutered as well. 

I didn’t train him to be vicious,

and he mostly stays at home

with my elderly mom. 

They get along well.

Grew up with “friendly” ones. 

They are absolute powder kegs.

The worst thing to do 

is run away or scream in panic.

This only triggers the prey drive.

Avoid them all the time 

is the only way you can be sure 

you're not going to get attacked. 

Sterilize all of them.

I have met so many 

friendly ones in my time.

They didn't seem aggressive 

until it was too late.

Author’s note: The poem was found from online comments regarding dogs attacking humans and in forums about pit bulls. It was written in light of the news of the "Cornell 7" and of dog attacks like that recently in San Francisco.

Beth Winegarner is an award-winning journalist, author, essayist and pop culture critic who’s contributed to the New York Times, the New Yorker, The Guardian, The Washington Post, and many others. She is the author of several books, most recently San Francisco’s Forgotten Cemeteries: A Buried History. She is the co-host of the Dead Reckoning podcast with Courtney Minick of Here Lies a Story, and the creator of the San Francisco Magdalen Asylum names project.