AUBADE BEFORE THE ELECTION

by Cheryl Martone

One crow swoops down from his solo perch,

beholds a lifeless body of another. His sudden

voice nudges indifferent dawn, grates the air.

Sky stretches and shifts, grows rich with color,

streaked with wings. This is no Van Gogh sky,

though. No wheatfields here. And yet, a sweep

of nature’s gestures,

 

                                 menace on the horizon,

a certain madness in the air, and now—in my

own backyard—a community moved by and

within a murder of its own. Crows pace, scan,

echo each other. Somehow, they must know

how mythologies persist about them: trickster,

thief. Something to dread. But when I look

below my own window,

 

                                        I don’t see anything

worse than small creatures born with intent

to survive. Everywhere, it seems, some kind

of danger, another funeral. Old lamentations,

new ones not yet imagined. Eventually, each

bird lifts away, leaves one soul behind. They,

and I, begin this day acknowledging another

passing, another unease

 

                                beyond Equinox. Soon,

All Souls Day. And days later, the millions

of votes cast. Dies cast. But now, it’s still

October, the shorter days, human silhouettes

moving within the windows of their lives –

within a daily exorbitance of

 

                                               whatever’s next.

Is it this ticking brightness? Some take it all in.

Some resist. Others look down and away. Sky

anchors in cobalt, erases this dawn reflection

of our autumn world riddled with fire.

Cheryl Martone lives in Rhode Island, where she works as a grant writer for a food rescue and hunger relief nonprofit. Her work has been published in Still Point Arts Quarterly, River Heron Review, Gyroscope Review, Drifting Sands Haibun, Yellow Arrow Journal, and Unlost, among other publications. 

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.

TO GATSBY

by Devon Balwit

USA Today Instagram graphic, November 3, 2025

A hundred years since Fitzgerald gave us The Great Gatsby,

a man we first meet reaching into the dark.

At first, he seems sad, then sinister, then sad again.

Some people have it so easy, old sport,

he marvels in his practiced accent. We know. We can see 

their ballrooms scintillating, distant and unreachable. 

We gather at their property line and try to make sense of their hilarity.

The vast eyes of advertisements—crypto, AI, online gambling—

stand in for God’s: No matter how hard we work 

the lever, the payout goes to the next guy, to someone 

someone’s only heard about. You need cash to sleep 

with another man’s wife. Spoiler: The book ends 

with a bang—a car crash, Gatsby’s murder, a suicide.

Sycophants queued up for his parties. None came to his funeral.

When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov Press, Asterisk Magazine, and Works in Progress.

LAST CALL

by Jane Blanchard

Scientists discovered a 2000-year-old white wine inside an urn that also contained a man's ashes in a Roman tomb in Spain. Photo: Juan Manuel Roman/ Journal of Archaeological Science via Yahoo! News, June 20, 2024

Morticians in the USA

could monetize this news

by marketing more options for

their customers to choose.

Pre-planners might prefer to go

with booze instead of wine,

and any brand of vodka, gin,

or bourbon would be fine.

Survivors might remember how

Big Daddy liked Bud Light,

but Mama went for Diet Coke

while Auntie favored Sprite.

Whatever is the beverage poured

into a funeral urn,

the ashes must be treated with

due measure of concern.

Jane Blanchard of Augusta, Georgia, has recent work in Light, Merion West, and Pulsebeat. Her latest collection with Kelsay Books is Metes and Bounds.

DIANNE FEINSTEIN IS DEAD

by Marissa Glover

This is the truest thing 
you will read all day. 
 
Some people mourn
others will rejoice
 
some write about legacy
others, swaths of destruction.
 
It happens every time.
Rush Limbaugh, bin Laden—
 
the women/witches at Salem.
What you see always depends 
 
on where you stand. Just ask
the reporters taking notes
 
at Calvary. There were women
crying at the foot of the cross;
 
there were soldiers gambling
for garments. 
 
If you’re looking for truth,
you will not find it here. 
 
Not even consensus. Except
Dianne Feinstein is dead.
 
Be grateful. Elvis and Tupac
can’t even get that much. 
 
Witnesses of the same car crash
offer cops different details…
 
Who is right? It doesn’t matter.
Everything goes into the report.
 
And someday it will be you,
likely not in the news cycle
 
because you’re not famous.
The only people invited
 
to speak at your funeral will 
have something good to say.
 
But there will always be others,
ready with their own story.
 
The only truth: you are dead.

Marissa Glover lives in Florida, dodging storms and swatting bugs. Her poetry collection Let Go of the Hands You Hold was released by Mercer University Press in 2021. Box Office Gospel was published by Mercer in 2023. Follow her on X (Twitter) at @_MarissaGlover_.