LEGAL CLINIC, CHURCH RECTORY, MARCH 2026

by Paula Finn

AI-Generated graphic from Craiyon

Let me not forget the volunteer interpreter,

his black bangs, a curtain raised in this dim room

as if to let in any word: hambre, matanza.

His hands, sallow, unwrinkled. He offers 

the pro bono lawyer starvation, death,

what propelled the woman seated to his left

2,000 miles on foot and crammed in vans,

a path our young interpreter already knows

not in Spanish/English, but in thirst, in ditches

become a bed, saguaros lurking overhead.

Still he comes here every Monday night.

His gift, to translate horror free of charge.

Paula Finn has been nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize. Her poems appeared recently in Common Ground, Bicoastal Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and Spoon River Review. On the hundredth anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, Finn spearheaded a piece of musical theater capturing that historic tragedy and the female immigrant worker organizing that arose in its wake. Featuring Finn's poetry set to music composed by the late composer Elizabeth Swados, the dramatic oratorio, Triangle: From the Fire, won the Best New Musical Theater award at the 2011 Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. 

ODE TO BLAZING INFERNO

by Clara Altfeld 

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

O America, I too fear my own demise.

I thought nothing was so permanent 

that it could never be undone, 

but in you, constants shift 

and movement stills.

I swore before God in a city you promised to love

that I would honestly demean myself

that I would support the Constitution 

of the United States—that sickened poem

written in praise to itself.

Attorney comes from an Old French word

meaning to turn to. And if I had not sworn myself

to your wretched service, America, I would turn 

away and away and away.

And in the turn: a shift, a settling, and the past, 

silky and surreal, would come rewinding back. 

The hearing, unheard. No judge, no gavel,

no order of removal for the mother and daughter

I had promised to protect. 

We walk backwards out from the courtroom,

Wrinkle our suits and hang them in the closet

Unwrite, undemand, unmove the pleasure of the court.

Become strangers again, part ways.

I, reversed to my little luxuries, spinning in place. 

Mother and daughter, to unend their journey,

undo footprints in the desert, the jungle.

Leave the sand unmarked, the Darien Gap uncrossed.

Let the boat rise from the waters

like the dawning sun. Water will expel 

from lungs. Eyes will unclose.

Husband and four children will unsleep 

their watery sleep. Shelter from demons

as a family. Oh, America, 

haven’t you always been this way?

Under the shine and sparkle, 

hollow and hostile and unholy?

Buried beneath the bones and rot

of bodies once loved?

Oh, America, let me write you 

a beating heart.

Bring yourself back to life so I can see you

in the firelight.

Clara Altfeld is a lawyer in Houston, Texas. She hopes to own a cat one day. This poem was written in workshop with KT Herr.

TODAY

by Earl J. Wilcox

Today when I awoke it was very dark outside.

Today when I got up at 5:30 AM, it was cold.

Today I fumble putting in my hearing aids.

Today my glasses help little with macular degenration.

Today my bladder wants to empty before I arise.

Today I struggle to put on my pants, my shoes.

Today the cats wait patiently to be fed, petted.

Today I see dimly the coffee pot, the faucet.

Today I munch a protein bar, put on a mask.

Today I find my walking stick, unlock the door.

Today I stumble out the door, my knees resist walking.

Today it is still dark as I move toward the street light.

Today I shudder, cough and sneeze, wait for a ride.

Today I hear kids and cars and school buses pass by.

Today a friend stops for me. I hobble to his car.

Today I find his car is warm, his voice hopeful.

Today we ride to a community center across town.

Today I can barely hear or see the place we seek.

Today I wobble down the pavement, smile, anxious.

Today a friendly voice asks if I am “doin’ OK?”.

Today I walk inside a warm hall, hear low, calm chatter.

Today I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Today I wonder if the line will open a slot for me.

Today I arise, my cane is calmer than I am.

Today I hand my photo ID to someone at a table.

Today I am helped to a small machine I barely see.

Today a friendly voice asks if I can see the screen.

Today I barely read, barely hear, barely stand.

Today I feel a rush of joy and peace.

Today my friend puts a small sticker on my sweater.

Today and tomorrow the sticker says I VOTED.

 

This week at age 87 Earl Wilcox voted.

THE QUESTION GULLS

by Alejandro Escudé

“Boy, some days I sure wish I was an ensign on the bridge of that destroyer again.” —Admiral Mike Rogers

It makes sense the Admiral would rather
be where the brackish sea-wind
sweeps away the confusion, where
the gulls are questions rising up into the air,
always answered. The 5-inch gun points
in one direction, whatever direction
it’s trained to point, no traitor likely
to sidle up to the Admiral on that deck,
no wickedness, because the enemy
of a destroyer isn’t wicked after it’s dubbed
“enemy.” Evil isn’t within the purview
of soldiers. Ask the Romans who had
to watch Christ drag his own cross.
They believe the only commandment
is the order. But the Admiral speaks
into his microphone and knows how
to translate I won’t tell on the president,
I’ve said enough, and you should know that.
There will be a closed-door meeting
in a room that they call a SCIF as if
the senators were anglers out on the sea,
nothing to do but discuss sensitive issues.


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

THE TYGER AND THE LAMB . . . AGAIN

by Earl J Wilcox

She said: we forgive you.
He was mute.

She said: hate will not win.
He looked straight ahead.

She said: repent and find your savior.
He said” Yes, sir, to the judge.

They said: Every fiber of our being hurts.
He turned and walked out.

Today there is no balm in Gilead.


Earl J Wilcox lives in South Carolina, cooks, writes, watches baseball, contributes regularly to The New Verse News.