INTERVAL

by Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

They said

this is your moment.

So we sat—

a few rows in—

watching

democracy

adjust its lights.

Promises entered first.

Well-dressed.

Fluent.

They spoke

in our language—

better than we do, sometimes.

Jobs arrived next—

counted aloud,

like blessings

no one stopped to check.

Cash followed quietly.

No speeches.

Just something understood

without being said.

We clapped.

Not loudly—

just enough.

Somewhere between

need

and negotiation,

we stopped thinking too much

about what was ours

and what was being offered.

The button—

small,

decisive,

mercifully simple.

Press.

Nothing to show later.

Interval.

Lights dim.

Noise settles

somewhere behind us.

When the curtain lifts again,

the stage is lighter.

Fewer promises.

Some things

just not there this time.

What was announced

comes back

“under process.”

What was certain

slows down—

then disappears.

We do not protest.

We adjust.

Survival stretches itself

over the years.

Dignity—

it comes and goes.

Outside,

the posters fade first.

Inside,

something follows.

Next election,

they will return—

with improved scripts,

cleaner numbers,

and our own words

borrowed again.

And we—

seasoned audience,

repeat believers—

will take our seats

before the lights come on.

No one will ask

what the first show changed.

No one will ask

why we stayed.

The applause will begin

on time.

And we will give it—

not because we believe,

not because we forgot,

but because

we have learned.

Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a poet and writer based in India. After a 36-year career in India’s power sector, he now focuses on literary writing. His work explores public memory, environmental crisis, social change, and everyday human endurance. His poetry has previously appeared in The New Verse News and other international journals.

by Penelope Moffet

 

 

 

I refused to watch the State of the Union,

unwilling to give two hours of my life

to so much bloviation and lies. Usually

I think it’s wise to know my enemy but

I know this one too well. Instead

I called a friend, spent half an hour

catching up and laughing, then read and

watched an hour of  Seaside Hotel,

Season Six, 1938, Danish refuge with

its mix of guests and servants,

persistence of decorum and dignity

as, still out of focus, fascism draws near.

Penelope Moffet is a poet and nonfiction writer based in Los Angeles. She is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems appear in many journals, including Calyx, Eclectica, ONE ART and Vox Populi. A full-length collection of her poetry will be published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions this Fall. 

MAKE TYPEFACE GREAT AGAIN

by Pamela Kenley-Meschino

In Spanish, "colibrí" (with an accent on the 'i') means hummingbird. The term "calibri" (without an accent) is the name of the font. The font's name does not directly derive from the Spanish word for hummingbird, but rather was one of several names suggested by the designer that started with the letter C. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, a Hispanic American, has ordered a return to the Times New Roman font for official diplomatic documents, reversing a previous directive to use Calibri. He stated that the prior administration's shift to Calibri was part of "misguided diversity, equity and inclusion policies." Calibri, sometimes described as soft and modern, is typically considered more accessible more accessible for people with reading challenges thanks to its simpler shapes and wider spacing, which make its letters easier to distinguish. Photo: Ensamble Folclórico Colibrí.

Beware woke typeface—

Calibri, with its easy round 

appeal, its flaunting legibility,

degrading inclusivity,

has no place here.

Welcome back

Times New Roman’s

erect formality 

meant for clearer eyes,

a traditional font 

befitting conventions,

administrative virility

and dignity of office.

 

To curtail distraction

by over-shapely texts,

a topographical mandate

spells a return to type.

 

Pamela Kenley-Meschino is originally from the UK, where she developed a love of nature, poetry, and music, thanks in part to the influence of her Irish mother. Her poetry has appeared in Literal Latté, Bards Annual anthologies, The New Verse News, The Stafford Challenge Anthology, Verse Virtual, and has been featured on WNYC’s 2025 poetry month presentations. She is an educator whose classes explore the connection between writing and healing, as well as the importance of shared stories.

JULIO

by Judy Strang

Screenshot provided by the poet’s son from the video he recorded.

My son told me 

he’d put on his vest and 

hooked the phone into the chest pocket facing out, 

pressed video, then strode across the narrow city street. 

That was his spontaneous choice, 

just home from his night shift, 

after parking his car across from his apartment,

after seeing two masked figures accost a person on the sidewalk.

 

In his paramedic suit and bullet proof vest with the phone-on-video,

he told them his name and pointed to his photo badge. 

He asked them to identify themselves,

looked at their badges—photo-less, flimsy, 

“Those could be printed on Etsy,” he said, “How do I know who you are?” 

They would not answer. But he got the name of the person they were taking, 

who gave it to him freely. 

My son yelled at the masked faces, “Take off your masks. 

Show us who you are.” 

And he yelled it again, venting his anger at their secrecy 

at their silence 

at their unjust power—

then it was over.

They had shoved the man into their unmarked car and were driving away.

 

My son told me

that’s when he let loose the language he’d wanted to spit in their faces. 

He threw it at their backs, watching the car disappear,

then stood there on the sidewalk, 

next to the door to the stairs leading to his apartment, 

and called the police. 

He waited for them to come so he could report the incident. 

A paramedic, he would speak his truth, 

“to serve human need, with respect for human dignity,”

and he would wonder what would happen 

to the man he would never see again 

whose name he would never forget

 

Judy Strang lives in the woods of Amherst County, VA, where she writes creative nonfiction, directs the Sourwood Forest artist residency program for the Pedlar River Institute, and works part time for the Harte Center for Teaching & Learning at Washington & Lee University (Lexington, VA). Her creative nonfiction, including What Holds Us Here: pieces from a place in the woods (Blackwell Press 2023), examines how humans understand (or not) their place within more-than-human nature.