WHAT I WANTED AND WHAT I GOT

by Susan Vespoli

Corporeal Writing Softest Tee

I wanted my son back. 

I wanted the cop who shot him 

to be held accountable. I wanted my son 

to be standing here wearing his Pure-Heart 

t-shirt, handing out food boxes. I wanted him 

to ask for more light clothes for Christmas,

more white socks because he believed light colors 

would help him stay clean. I wanted another cross

for him to carry—mosaic-ed in fractured glass—

another coffee date at Starbucks, another tour 

of his apartment furnished with found lamps 

and a found statue of a bear holding a fish 

that says “Welcome.” I wanted his voice

saying “I love you, Mom,” his fingers 

texting me photos of geese and cats 

and quail eggs laid in a ceramic swan.

What I got was a wrongful death lawsuit, 

a deposition where I was shamed and blamed 

by an eye-rolling smirking bitch of a City 

of Phoenix lawyer who mocked my 12-step beliefs, 

asking sarcastically,     “Did it help?”    

I got my Facebook account invaded by the cop’s 

legal team, two of my poetry books used as evidence 

against my son. I got a gag order—no more speaking 

about or publishing poems about the loss or the case, 

two canceled poetry readings. I got a t-shirt that says: 

“Make art in the face of fuck.” I got the face of fuck. 

I got a pen and more notebooks because the cop’s lawyers 

confiscated my journals and I write anyway and I write anyway 

and I still believe good will prevail. Still believe the spirit of Adam 

stands among us, that his words “I think god has another plan for my life”

will ring and ring and crack the wrecking ball of the cops’ denial 

and out of the shatter—will glow my son’s smile, his essence, his light.

Author’s Note by Susan Vespoli: City of Phoenix is squirming about the upcoming results of the DOJ’s two-year investigation into their use of excessive force, high number of police killings, and unfair treatment of the homeless. The City claims they don’t need oversight. I, as the mother of an unarmed man shot and killed by police on March 12, 2022, shout: “YES. THEY. DO.”

Editor’s Note: The New Verse News has published a number of the poems written by Susan Vespoli in the aftermath of the killing by Phoenix police of her son Adam:   "Before I Knew Adam Had Died,”  "My Ex-Husband Calls… ,"   … In Reverse,” “I Am Finally Handed… ,” “Under Investigation… ,” “Dear 2022,” “Poem for My Middle Finger,” “Dear Gag Order,”

LIBRARIAN/HAPPY EASTER/X

by Annie Cowell

“Twenty-two years after a pair of notebooks filled with Charles Darwin’s early musings went missing from the Cambridge University Library, they were anonymously returned in good condition last month along with a note to the elated librarian: ‘Happy Easter.’” —The New York Times, April 5, 2022. Photo: One of the returned notebooks included Charles Darwin’s famous “tree of life” drawing, which maps out how related species could diverge from a common ancestor. Credit: Cambridge University Library via The New York Times

It wasn’t just the fatty bloom of ancient leather

(although my fingers itched to touch it),

but more the lignin laden bibliosmia

which wafts from the wrinkled patina.

Vanilla essence of Darwin.

What lay inside mattered less to me

than the shadow of the procreator,

of the man whose mind gave Life to the Tree.

An aura which goes beyond the scientific,

of ink-stained fingers lacing 

his beard with brown and grey before 

penning those spindly branches. 

Two decades, I have been their guardian.

Whilst they were presumed missing

mislaid, misfiled, misplaced,

I have inhaled Darwin; stared at the covers

through half-closed eyes,

felt his ghostly hands on mine. 

It is only when he whispers

the books are overdue,

that I know I must return them.

The librarian looks a jolly sort so 

I choose a pink gift bag

and leave them with a note,

happy to have played a part 

in the mystery

of the Origins of Life.

Author’s Note: This poem was inspired by the return of Darwin’s notebooks to Cambridge University. I wanted to imagine what had motivated both the taking and the returning of them.

Annie Cowell is a former teacher living in Cyprus. She has poems forthcoming in a number of publications. @AnnieCowell3

GOING TO CLASS BEFORE EVERYTHING CHANGES

by Anuja Ghimire

Two teenage Nepalese schoolgirls suffered burn injuries after a boy hurled acid at them early Sunday, police said. The girls, aged 15 and 16, were admitted to a hospital with burn injuries after the youth attacked them with a bottle of acid. The two were sitting in class at a coaching centre in Kathmandu waiting for other students when the attack occurred. "A masked boy came into the room and threw acid at them," senior police officer Narayan Khadka told AFP. Khadka said an investigation was underway to find the attacker, and added that his motive had not yet been established. Acid attacks, which disfigure and often blind their overwhelmingly female victims, are often a form of revenge in South Asia linked to dowry, land disputes or refusal to a man's advances. Although acid attacks are now a criminal offence in neighbouring India, there are no specific laws addressing it in Nepal.  --Yahoo! News, February 22, 2015; Kathmandu Post photo by NARENDRA SHRESTHA & Nimesh Jang rai

To stick
a little round ball
of chewed gum under the desk
And spread notebooks
over the two initials and the arrow
Carved with a ball point pen,
shielded with a heart
Your mouth
buried in a friend’s ear
The latest
on the boy who smiled
 in the hallway,
again
The crumpled yellow paper
wet with your sweat
Because words
only spoken
are too soon
forgotten

To relearn
Pythagorean theorem,
though you don’t understand
why
You wear
the red sweater
 your mother hand washed
-- It should last another year --
And the white shirt
your father ironed
So the collar is creased
just right
Because rules
followed
unlock
happy tomorrows

To pull out
the new protractor
your brother bought
The last one
chipped and broke
into three uneven bits
You measure
the angles of triangles,
your duty
And sit
with dreams
folded in your pockets
Before the unguarded door
opens
letting in
the rushed steps
Because you
are beautiful,
but you have
to become someone


Anuja Ghimire is from Kathmandu. Her poetry is published in Riverlit, Glass, Clay, Ishaan Literary Review, Zest, Right Hand Pointing, Stone Path Review, Constellations, and others. She lives in Dallas.