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.

THE COLD

by Liz Ahl

The wind tries every latch, each seam, but

it’s the knuckle-cracking record-breaking cold 

whose fists pound hourly the walls, the roof, 

cop-heavy menace, tree-fall percussive, 

making the house itself a booming bass drum 

or splintering ax fall or too-close shotgun blast—

anything but a place you'd want to rest your head.

No use trying to bar the door: the cold knocks 

from deep already inside, beneath the stain, 

in the tightest betweens, down in the grain 

where some breath of moisture kept its own counsel 

for as long as it could before it finally froze and fractured, 

abruptly unloading its long-kept secret, releasing

in a compulsive shout what was once unspeakable.

All day and into evening the house tries to undo itself

like this, in some weird winter molt—clapboards and nails 

popping in a deconstruction zone of home-unmaking, 

house un-warming—and so tonight we'll play at sleep, 

pray we'll wake to the still-ticking of the faucets

we left open to slow drip, to prevent the pipes 

from joining the home’s involuntary revolt against itself.

Liz Ahl is the author of A Case for Solace (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2022) and Beating the Bounds (Hobblebush Books, 2016), as well as several chapbooks. She lives in New Hampshire.

THE STORM

by Katherine West

It is the north wind

does the damage

Blind semi head-ons

small family car

Flowers mound on graves—

freeze to ice sculptures

that never melt into

palette knife paintings

We put on our winter

coats, scarves, gloves

begin the long hike

to spring

The leaders of men freeze—

proclaim the death of spring

You say: Never mind, Love,

we will make our own.

We gather wood—

make a fire in the lee

of the Holy Mountain—

my tears freeze on my cheeks

I say: The Frozen are coming. There is no dry wood.

The fire is going out.

You say: Never mind, Love,

we will make our own.

Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near Silver City. She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and Riddle, as well as one novel Lion Tamer. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Writing in a Woman's Voice, Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, The New Verse News, Tanka Journal, Splash!, Eucalypt, Writers Resist, Feminine Collective, and Southwest Word Fiesta. The New Verse News nominated her poem "And Then the Sky" for a Pushcart Prize in 2019. In addition she has had poetry appear as part of art exhibitions at the Light Art Space gallery in Silver City, New Mexico, the Windsor Museum in Windsor, Colorado, and the Tombaugh Gallery in Las Cruces, New Mexico. She is also an artist.

THAT WAS THE WINTER

by Peter Krass

The New York City blizzard of 1947 dropped 26.4 inches of snow in Central Park over two days (December 26-27). As moisture in the Gulf Stream fed the storm's energy, the City was paralyzed when the blizzard barreled its way through, stranding cars and buses in the streets, halting subway service, and claiming 77 lives. —Image Source: New York Public Library via New York City OEM.

That was the winter when snow fell three times
in one week, twelve times in one month,
fell even on the first day of spring
and no one mentioned it
or else looked surprised when it was mentioned,
as if eccentric blizzards, deep endless freezes
were perfectly normal
and no cause for worry.

That was the winter when a bicycle was buried
in a snowbank, only its handlebars
visible, poking out from the top
of a frozen mound
like a pair of chromed periscopes
hunting for clues.

That was the winter said to be the coldest
in years, in decades,
the snow freezing on sidewalks and streets,
then melting in rare rays of sunlight,
then freezing again,
then melting again and freezing yet again,
changing color, too, from pristine white
to urban grey, and then
to a disgusting speckled black
until the snow became something else, something
not-quite-snow, not-quite-ice,
but what, no one had a word for yet.

That was the winter lonely-hearted men
relied on porn and their exhausted imaginations,
for all outdoor female forms were bound and concealed
in boots, hats, scarves, shapeless coats, fleece vests, bulky
sweaters, lined gloves, even childish mittens,
and beneath it all, long underwear, turtleneck collars
and sad, thick grey wool socks.

That was the winter when walking to the store
was like walking on the moon,
the ground grey, frozen and crunching,
the air muffled, disconcertingly still,
when even a Friday night was strangely deserted,
neither a car nor a pedestrian on the move,
as if an entire city had been immobilized,
which in a way it had.

That was the winter so cold, no one dared speak
of global warming,
though some saw the weather
as a kind of warning
and they worried, worried
a great deal.
And now, decades later,
we who have known so much more,
so much worse, think back on that winter,
those long-ago worries,
and we smile.
Sadly, to be sure.
But still, we smile.


Peter Krass is a freelance writer and editor, and a creative-writing teacher at The Writers Studio, both in New York and online. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Commonline Journal, The New Verse News, and elsewhere, and his poem "All Dressed in Green" recently received a Pushcart Prize special mention.

WHITHER WEATHER #2: FIRE OR ICE

by Tricia Knoll

Image source: KXL

The poet weighed the ends of flame and freeze
as if the fulcrum balanced between love and hate.

We are coming to know enough of both
to see the crux is fog of mind and sloth.

The west burns, the south freezes,
the ice is a river we cannot push.

Fire takes the wildwood
we saw first in black and white

now mixed sooty ash and snow.
The glaciers melt like films

children will never see,
the peaches they will not eat.


Tricia Knoll is a Portland poet, snowbound alone in her house for seven days. Her chapbook Urban Wild is now available from Finishing Line Press.