INCINERATE

by Robin Wright

Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Shutterstock

Five months into its unprecedented dismantling of foreign-aid programs, the Trump administration has given the order to incinerate food instead of sending it to people abroad who need it. Nearly 500 metric tons of emergency food—enough to feed about 1.5 million children for a week—are set to expire tomorrow, according to current and former government employees with direct knowledge of the rations. Within weeks, two of those sources told me, the food, meant for children in Afghanistan and Pakistan, will be ash. —Hana Kiros, The Atlantic, July 14, 2025

Children are left to live
with hunger pangs
clawing their stomachs
like a tiger
while enough food
to feed millions
of them for a week
will be tossed in a fire
that roars with orange flames
& adds a new circle
of hell to Dante’s list.
The orange glow
reflecting perfectly
on the man in charge.

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News, One Art, As it Ought to Be, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Loch Raven Review, Panoply, Rat’s Ass Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best New Poets nominee. Her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.

WHAT I LEARNED ABOUT BEING KIND

by Robin Wright

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News

For Mariann Edgar Budde

 

Rip off the band aid

of sarcasm, hurt, madness,

drop it in the trash,

bend down on your knees,

push that trash down deep.

Don’t use one hand,

drop both in and push,

push hard. Stand up

close your eyes, take a breath.

Now you’re ready

for those who haven’t

completed the steps, those

who will test you and flunk you.

Their grade book closed,

locked with their own

unkindness.

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in One Art, As it Ought to Be, Subliminal Surgery, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Loch Raven Review, Panoply, Rat’s Ass Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best New Poets 2024 nominee. Her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.

BULLET-PROOF BACKPACK

by Robin Wright

First day of school, pens, pencils, notebooks,

scissors, crayons, lunch bag, corralled and ready,

along with fear, anxiety, worry.

 

Parents hopeful—not their children’s school, 

not their children’s lives on the next segment 

of the news with police interviews on who, how many. 

 

I watch a video of a mother teaching her child 

what to do in case a shooter appears at school, 

run to the corner, curl up behind his backpack. 

 

Do not let anyone tell him he doesn’t need 

this small wall of protection. She instructs him 

on what to say, NOTHING.

 

She tells him, be small, be quiet, run if you can. 

I will find you. Yes, I will find you,

wearing your Spiderman backpack.

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News, One Art, As it Ought to Be, The Drabble, Bombfire Lit, Young Ravens Literary Review, Olney Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Muddy River Poetry Review,Sanctuary, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.

MAP MAKING

by Robin Wright

Draw lines that represent countries.

Go further, pen buildings

whole and firm, houses

with sunflowers, children’s toys

in the yard, bicycle leaning

against a tree, a bench in front

of a library. Populate with people

eating ice cream, strolling the streets.

 

Hold the map close.

 

Soldiers tear it away,

draw guns, tanks,

bodies on the ground

carpeted with blood,

crushed buildings,

landmines meant to erase.

 

Snatch it back,

ink blue sky, yellow sun

above people, buildings,

a child’s future.

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Bombfire Lit, One Art, Young Ravens Literary Review, Olney Magazine, As it Ought to Be, Rat’s Ass Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sanctuary, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.

MRI

by Robin Wright

"Breathe in breathe out" poster  by Raphaella Vaisseau

A voice summons from somewhere outside this tube.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

No way to say I’ve been doing just that

ever since Putin invaded Ukraine.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

I study gray tape on the ceiling, a few inches

from my face. It’s long and straight, a runway, but

no planes, only torn spots in the shapes of tear drops.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

I lie still. When loud thuds like gunfire overpower U2

playing "With or Without You" on my headphones,

I squeeze my eyes tight, willing the noise to stop.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

I’m safe, tucked in a tube.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

A pregnant woman, bloody, swollen

thought she’d be safe inside the maternity ward

in Mariupol, but had to stumble through glass,

rubble, and labor pains to keep her body

and unborn baby from being torn to bits by bombs.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

How many families are with or without loved ones?

How many hide in basements with no food, water, electricity?

How many buried in mass graves? How many more?

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold your breath

 

The machine done, the radiology tech

tells me I’m good at holding my breath.

 

I leave, await my fate and that of Ukrainians.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, Breathe in, Hold my breath

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in One Art, Young Ravens Literary Review, Olney Magazine, As it Ought to Be, Rat’s Ass Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sanctuary, and others. Her first chapbook Ready or Not was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.

NIGHTFALL

by Anton Yakovlev

The Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire

 
She looked like Robin Wright in The Princess Bride.
She was your nurse, but you called her “my muse”
ever since your first check-up.

Your colonel threatened to lead you into harm’s way,
assuming you imagined her in wet dreams,
failing to grasp the meaning of the word “muse.”

This game of alphas was all well and good
until, just halfway into your deployment,
he did let your vehicle get blown up.

You awoke, and many thought you might still return
to active duty, until a routine injection
prompted you to knock your nurse muse unconscious.

For months you shied away from traffic lights.
Thankfully, your aim had gotten so bad
you missed your own temple at point blank range.

Today you spend most evenings in Middle Earth,
imagining you’re at a campfire with hobbit brothers.
The night falls.

For two months of the year
you’re the star of the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire,
jousting and wooing.

You’ve acquired a handful of Twitter followers.
You balladeer tasteful maxims
about the well-tuned diplomacy of pole dancers.

Your voicemail greeting is a legend.
The chickens in your front yard drive
every local farmer to jealous rage.

When children come trick-or-treating,
you throw a Dracula cape over your chain mail
and shower them with Belgium’s finest chocolate.

But their parents impose strict curfews.
And even the hobbits have their bedtime restrictions;
Thorin the dwarf has to take care of his beard.

You slip back into that night in the hospital.
Your muse in scrubs lies on the floor next to your bed.
If only you could help her up.

An anchor stares at you from the TV screen.
A blast down the street
sends tremors through the hospital windows

and all those people running into your room.


Anton Yakovlev grew up in Moscow, Russia, but moved to the United States in 1996. He studied filmmaking and poetry at Harvard University. Anton lives in Ridgewood, NJ and works as a college textbook editor. His poetry has appeared in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow, CityLitRag, The Poet in New York and Instigatorzine, and is forthcoming in The New Yorker, The Raintown Review, and 823 on High. He has also directed several short films.