GRINDIN’ OUT A DEAL

by Rick Pongratz

After a public contract dispute that led an East Idaho hospital to become out of network with a major health insurer, the two businesses agreed to a contract. The deal brings Portneuf Medical Center in-network for Regence BlueShield of Idaho, according to a joint announcement made Saturday by the hospital and insurer. For two months, the hospital had been out of network for Regence, the insurer for state government employees and other private plans. —Idaho Capital Sun, August 18, 2026

You need to pray for the negotiators
to reach an agreement and resolve this.
Dan, my health insurance customer service rep,
tells me this over the phone.
 
I can’t see him.
I can’t see the words either,
but his voice and tone 
remind me of the youth pastors 
from when I was a kid. 
The ones that never studied 
at a seminary—but, by golly, 
they sure loved Jesus. 
 
My insurance company and my hospital refuse 
to agree on who gets most of my money. 
My doctor wants me to get x-rays 
for a bone spur under my toenail. 
It causes the nail to rise up—inflating 
is the word my insurance company uses 
for the prices of the hospital. 
And that nasty nail just won’t let go—greedy 
is the word my for-profit hospital uses 
for the insurance company 
that won’t agree to terms.
 
And this little toenail, 
it’s quite a small thing, 
but it’s holding a whole foot hostage. 
All the other toenails lie in their beds, 
just taking the space they need. 
They don’t hold out for a ransom, 
expecting a kick-back 
in exchange for not causing pain 
when I knock the soccer ball 
around with my kid.
 
But that’s toes for ya.
So this little fella needs 
to have a bit shaved 
off the top of that bone. 
But the doctor wants
to see what he’s looking at. 
And the hospital tells me my portion 
of the x-ray price is $293, up front. 
I tell the billing specialist 
that Dremels are on sale 
at Lowe’s for $39.98. 
I can buy seven Dremels to grind off 
my toenail, just like the doctor does,
and still have enough money
left over for ice cream. 
I show her the Lowe’s website on my phone. 
She says I’m wasting her time,
and it seems we are at an impasse,
so I call off negotiations. 
 
I go for the ice cream. 
I never was the best with delayed gratification. 
But it seems that sometimes miracles,
they do happen, 
and my hospital 
and my insurance company 
have agreed 
on how rich they should each get. 
 
I haven’t called to see how many 
Dremels the x-ray will cost now. 
I’ll probably just have to settle
for the words spoken
by youth pastor Dan 

and pray for the negotiators;

as I know they prey.

Rick Pongratz is a poet and mental health clinician. His writing appears in Rattle, Bellevue Literary Review, The New Verse News, Unbroken, and elsewhere. Rick specializes in ecotherapy and studies creative writing at Idaho State University. He currently resides in Idaho where he enjoys getting lost in the woods with his family and dog.

BJÖRN IN VENICE

by Julia Griffin

Björn Andrésen, Swedish actor who starred in Death in Venice, dies aged 70: Actor who also starred in Midsommar and became a musician was nicknamed ‘the most beautiful boy in the world’–a title he struggled with all his life. —The Guardian, October 27, 2025

"He is very frail, he is sickly," Aschenbach thought. "In all probability he will not grow old." And he refused to reckon with the feeling of gratification or reassurance which accompanied this notion. — Thomas Mann, Death in Venice (1912)

The man wanted him dead. That was the truth

Beyond the mere unspeakable, the shame,

The furtive stalking, the pretence at youth:

To have him die, this moonbeam boy whose name

He never knew, whose voice he never heard:

Blue eyelids closed, flesh drained to marble, cold

Child’s spirit thinned to air. The man incurred,

Thereby, his own death, endlessly retold; 

The boy survived, to manhood, middle age,

Seventy years. He did his best to grow:

He bristled out, became a white-haired sage,

Outlived the man, but not the mythic glow

That doomed them both. Behold the boy, love’s prey,

Who died, at last, but never got away.

Julia Griffin has published in several online poetry  magazines; lives with a socially-engaged basset hound, a regular on local demonstrations.

THE TIPPING POINT

by Jill Rachel Jacobs

(Ode to an Unseen Migrant During Perilous Times)

 

When evil comes a knocking, 

it may arrive with a vengeance, or 

incognito, like some 

Bible-thumping

good ol’ Joe, 

humping a flag.

 

("What we've got here is a failure to communicate")

When rage is sadness and 

sadness is rage, and it becomes

impossible to distinguish the two,

it’s not surprising we may recoil,

hidden in the shadows of the 

reality of what has become 

the new normal. 

 

("But I don’t want to go among mad people")

Like a cancer gone undetected, 

metastasized, 

cell by cell, 

dividing 

conquering,

licking wounds,

stealing secrets, 

tempted by madness,

trying to make sense of 

how we have now become 

that which we once loathed.

 

("Thank you, Sir, May I have another?")

 

When horror is contained, 

darkness has lifted, 

emerging from the underbelly,

dreams intact, 

still blinded by the 

innocence of children’s eyes, 

resting comfortably;

We wait.

 

("We have learned to see the world in gasps")

Unencumbered by reason,

justice now a luxury, 

in a world unrecognizable,

where compassion no longer prevails.

 

(How long? An hour, a year, a lifetime or two?)

 

When will we say when?

When prey becomes the predator,

When captors are held captive,

When cage doors are flung wide open.

Jill Rachel Jacobs is a New York based writer, poet whose poetry has been featured in numerous journals. Her features, commentaries, interviews have been published in The New York Times, Reuters, The Independent, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, The Los Angeles Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Post, Newsday, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Chicago Tribune, NPR’s Marketplace and Morning Edition.

FEEDING THE FAT CATS

by Paul Burgess

Republican bill cuts food aid for elderly, low-income, & disabled Americans and increases funding for their own version of Supplemental Nutrition and Assistance Program. —Ann Telnaes, May 2

Ensure that butter fills the bowls of batter, 
And watch the oven while the mixture bakes.
The fattest cat will soon be getting fatter 
Once fed these massive overfrosted cakes.
 
Then, offer up your children's hamster pet,
The cuddly thing with white and brownish fur,
And thank the Lord the fattest cat you've met
Has deigned to eat your food and give a purr.
 
Now, find a book of ancient magic words
And learn the phrase you'll have your family say 
To turn yourselves to tiny, harmless birds
That Mister Fats will swallow as his prey.
 
And soon you'll be a bone-and-feather lump 
Excreted from your idol's noble rump.

Paul Burgess, an emerging poet, is the sole proprietor of a business in Lexington, Kentucky that offers ESL classes in addition to English, Japanese, and Spanish-language translation and interpretation services. He has recently contributed work to Blue Unicorn, Light, The Orchards, The Ekphrastic Review, Pulsebeat, The New Verse News, Lighten Up On Line, The Asses of Parnassus, and several other publications

HARES ON THE MOUNTAIN

by Gail White

Families connected to a Nashville school that experienced a fatal shooting earlier this year have created nonprofits to not only promote school safety and mental health resources, but also to form an action fund to push legislative policy changes. The Independent (UK), July 21, 2023

If all the young women were hares on the mountain,

Then all the young men would turn hounds and go hunting.

—“Hares on the Mountain”

Why is your gun so hot, my son,

have you hunted the deer today?

No, mother, the deer were safe from me.

I have hunted another prey.

Is it your father’s gun you found,

that he kept on a shelf so high?

No, mother, this gun is all my own,

for guns are easy to buy.

No one bothered to ask my age,

or how much I could understand,

and it’s easy enough to find the prey

on a tracker in my hand.

I may go hunting along the beach,

or down by the hidden pool,

but the deer are all as safe from me

as the children are safe in school.

Gail White is a formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her most recent collections are Paper Cuts, Asperity Street, and Catechism. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats. 

INHERITANCE

by Mary Hills Kuck

To Governor Kristi Noem

My grandmother gave me one sterling spoon

for each of my first twelve years. A wandering

rose fills the neck of the spoon, sends vines

down the stem, with roses here and tiny

leaves there, then finally a clustered bouquet

next to M marked for Mary, the name we happily shared.

 

Did she imagine I’d take out these spoons,

tied year by year in a soft flannel roll,

and set them on linen with vases of roses,

my friends gathered there to talk about art,

song, and church over tea, petit fours?

 

I’m sorry to say I use one at a time

in my mug of strong tea before eight.

Then I race off to teach, attend meetings or shop.

Yet the spoon stirs my thoughts of her love  

for her namesake, her hope for my future, my home.

 

Your granddaughter, Governor, as you have said,

gets a gift every year of your love.

She already owns a gun for each year

of her innocent two-year-old life.

 

Did you engrave on the barrel of each new piece

your name and the year of the gift?

Did you ask the seller to add little blooms,

tiny vines, or sweet pinky hearts?

 

How do you think she’ll make use of these gifts

when she’s reached the allowable age to aim,

indeed, fire; what prey will your granddaughter shoot?

Will she start with the birds, then on to the cats,

and finally seek out the big game?

Mary Hills Kuck has has published poems in print journals, including the Connecticut River Review, SLANT, Tipton Poetry Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, From the Depths, Poetry Quarterly, Main St. Rag, and others online. Intermittent Sacraments, her chapbook, was published in 2021 by Finishing Line Press. She has received a Pushcart Prize nomination.

STREET CRIMES OPERATION TO RESTORE PEACE IN OUR NEIGHBORHOODS (SCORPION)

by John Whitney Steele

The predatory arachnids of the order,

Scorpiones, sit and wait for prey

to move, unknowing, into the ambush zone.

Once the prey has been detected 

they turn, run, and seize it. 

    If the prey

is perceived to be aggressive or active, 

they inject it with their venom.

Otherwise they simply hold and eat it.

The victim’s body parts are broken down,

liquified, and sucked into the scorpion’s 

stomach. 

The victim is gradually reduced

to a ball of indigestible 

material, 

which is cast aside.

John Whitney Steele is a psychologist, yoga teacher, assistant editor of Think: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction and Essays, and graduate of the MFA Poetry Program at Western Colorado University. His chapbook, The Stones Keep Watch, and his full length collection of poetry, Shiva’s Dance were recently published by Kelsay Books. John lives in Boulder, Colorado and enjoys hiking in the mountains.

SOMETHING ABOUT WOLVES IN LOUISVILLE

by W. Barrett Munn

They hunt

as if they were four wolves,

a pack in pursuit of its prey.

When found they surround.

Fearsome, they isolate the young, the weak.

The black

night of the deserted moon masks

their padded steps but rapid hearts

and adrenal sweat unmasks

their stealth intent.

In silence they surround.

Less silent comes their rush:

Sudden. Sure.

They come as one

faceless, nameless, savage fury

until prey can only hope

survival of encounter

but this prey never had a chance:

judged and juried,

justified the pack brings down

its game, misguided hunger quelled.

In silence they survive

the questions; they

close the open net

no game escapes

no mistakes as

the righteousness of nature

nestles close.

Silence is a necessity

voices turn blue ischemic,

black and whites become necrotic.

But the smell won't fade in silence.

Stench always has a cost.

Silence as a weapon is

too weak when conscience speaks

too weak and unreliable when

other hunters—larger,

more powerful—

lay down their open traps.

W. Barrett Munn lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. His poems have appeared in Copperfield Review Quarterly, Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, and The Asses of Parnassus. He is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied under Larry Callen.

PARROT THERAPY

by Ellen Aronofsky Cole

Credit: Josh Seong / Verywell

The room is fat with jungle sounds.

Haiku runs three-dimensional laps

around her cage, across the floor,

 

up the bars to her food dish, across

two perches, whistles, rings her bell,

repeats. 

 

Okay, I may be turning into Haiku.

 

My manic pacing, the way I roll

and twitch in bed, unceasing motion.

Pamala, the parrot behavior specialist,

 

tells me Haiku’s a fearful bird.

All parrots are, she says. After all,  

they’re prey. So that explains it,

 

my sleepless nights, how I can’t

concentrate, can’t settle.  The congregation

of monsters salivating outside the door,

 

one named COVID, the one we call

World on Fire, the mendacious Cheeto-hued

one bellowing his own name. 

 

My new doctor says we’ll all sleep better

after November third.  Perhaps, but

fear’s a cold bone that runs deep in me,

 

and sleep’s the promised land. This evening

Haiku grinds her beak, a happiness

behavior that precedes sleep. 

 

The sound soothes me. I marvel again

how she twists her head backwards,

buries it beneath her wings.

Ellen Aronofsky Cole has two books of poetry, Notes from the Dry Country (Mayapple Press, 2019) and Prognosis (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her work has appeared in Fledgling Rag,  Bellevue Literary Review, Little Patuxent Review, Potomac Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Washington Post Magazine, and other journals, and in The New England Journal of Medicine. Ellen lives in Silver Spring, Maryland with her husband Brian and her parrot Haiku.

PONDERINGS OF A HALF-DECENT (MAYBE) WHITE MAN

by Michael L. Ruffin

The White Man (1907) by Lyonel Feininger

I'm so very tired
of the injustice.
I wonder how
exhausted I'd be
were I its victim.

I'm so very tired 
of the racism.
I wonder how 
exhausted I'd be 
were I its target.

I'm so very tired 
of the misogyny.
I wonder how 
exhausted I'd be
were I its prey.

I'm so very tired
of the privilege.
I wonder how
exhausted I'd be
were I not its beneficiary.

Michael L. Ruffin is a writer, editor, preacher, and teacher living and working in Georgia. He posts poems on Instagram (@michaell.ruffin) and prose opinions at On the Jericho Road. He is author of Fifty-Seven: A Memoir of Death and Life and  of the forthcoming Praying with Matthew. His poetry has appeared at TheNewVerse.News, 3 Moon Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, and U-Rights Magazine.

AFTER THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON IN DANNEMORA

by Alejandro Escudé

New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo, left, and Vermont Gov. Peter Shumlin hold a news conference in front of the Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, N.Y. Shumlin said his state is ready if the escaped prisoners are found hiding there. —SETH WENIG/AP via NY Daily News, June 10, 2015

Raw world,  animal transfiguration,

Governor         at a podium,
acetone square,  enforcement, 

his word,         forest of 
microphones, gulps of blood, 

mere prey, pair of stags 
stalked for weeks,

footprints

pride, mystery,  a wall a god, 

law, scripture,         a man like deer 

sprints  for the treeline.


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.

AD ASTRA

by Bradley McIlwain

“A new meteor shower sparked some celestial fireworks late Friday and early Saturday (May 23-24), amazing stargazers across North America even though it did not reach the spectacular "meteor storm" levels that some had hoped for.” Photo: A small Camelopardalid meteor streaks through the northern lights as the Milky Way shines overhead in this stunning photo by stargazer Gail Lamm from Balmoral, Manitoba in Canada on May 24, 2014. Credit: Gail Lamm   --Space.com, May 24, 2014

A wolf sings
out my back gate
where does he go
at four a.m.?

The undergrowth
is cool, calming.
Tonight, we are
both prey

to the sky gods,
hungry meteors
dripping from the
womb

a golden apple
waiting for the
sleeping hero
to awaken


Bradley McIlwain's poems have appeared in The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly, The Open Mouse, Platform Magazine (Victoria University in Melbourne, Australia) and in anthologies such as Love Notes: A Collection of Romantic Poetry from Vagabondage Press (2012) and The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly Vol. 2 (2013). His poems have previously appeared in The New Verse News.