Poetry X Hunger

Veronique Manfredini (she/her) has a Master's in English from Monmouth University where she is the recipient of the Creative Writing Award in Poetry for Spring 2024. She is the Founding Editor of The Honey Pot Literary and her writing appears or is forthcoming in the Monmouth Review, the Mood Reader Anthology, and Collage Magazine. Veronique hails from Italy and is passionate about incorporating her hometown and language into her writing. She is currently crafting a fantasy-mystery novel set in Florence, Italy, and curating a collection of poems surrounding food and memory.

Roaches

I watch them—hungry, starving,
desperately waiting—as lines form
on their foreheads. Sweat drips, frosts over.

Decisions, decisions.
How many of their own decisions
brought them here; gaunt, in line?
And they just keep coming back for more.

How many of mine brought them to stand
alone, with others, hands outstretched, in search
of a morsel? Shame and fear of not knowing
where their next meal will come from.

How many times have I sent the plagues
but those roaches will not die.
How many times have I cut the funds
but they just keep coming back for more.

Community is not part of America—
it’s a self-absorbed being.
Community does not belong here.

I’ll stomp them out, get rid of them all.
They don’t belong, but they just won’t die.
They just keep coming back for more.

Garden State

Food deserts starve for

affordable nutrition in the Garden—

State of disarray, dust grows

weeds in the concrete smoke jungle.

They forget even when packed—

thin sliced deli meat on a thick sandwich—

the chronic disease isn’t just a

starvation of community and connection.

Food pantries cannot satiate

the needs that stem from a scarce

support system—snap away access—

people refuse to see the truth.

You are what you eat,

but if I have nothing,

who am I?

In Your Fridge

You water yourself—fill
yourself to the brim,
to avoid the growling anger
beneath your ribs.

One apple a day, they say,

so you crunch on
sweet, savory, sharp,
wishing it was a slice
of your mama’s pie—

Instead—

you continue to drown yourself
in a glass, keeping the beast sated
until that number is reached—

desperate for a sense of
achievement.

Others beg
for what you let rot.

Susanna Rich, author of SHOUT! Poetry for Suffrage, writes on historical and political topics, and is a frequent contributor to Sensations Magazine, most recently to its issue on “100 Years of Gay Rights.” With over a thousand publication and performance credits, including five poetry collections, she is a Fulbright Fellow in Creative Writing and an Emmy Award nominee. Susanna is Distinguished Professor Emerita at Kean University, where she proudly served a diverse community of students, who were often the first to have a college education. As a child born to immigrant parents, Susanna knows, from experience, the sacrifices a family must make in the struggle to have enough to eat. She volunteers at Nourish NJ and is a frequent contributor to World Central Kitchen.

We, the Peoples of the Land

gave you fur—beaver, bear, racoon—

you gave us blankets laced

with disease.

Our grapes, rye, currants, sarsaparilla

you turn into hard spirits

to drug us.

We loaned you land you never

return but take the rest.

We gave you the Three Sisters—

corn, beans, squash—

taught you to plant them

with fish heads—

your sugars bloat our bodies,

squeeze our hearts,

so we know, now, like you,

the scourge of never-enough.

We honored the bison, the fish, the deer—

you murder them.

Our clean air you poison

with coal breath and gas.

We taught you to bathe in clear waters—

you pollute it with waste.

We showed you paths—

you blaze, still, The Trail of Tears.

We kept you warm in winters—

you chain our wrists.

We gave you The Four Medicines—

tobacco, cedar, sage, sweetgrass.

We gave you willow for your pain,

witch hazel for your wounds.

You murder, pillage, rape

us through time—

imprison us in wastelands,

starve us, deny our dance

with rain, eagles, wolves,

our ghosts—life-giving stories

around the fire, our burial grounds,

our names, our tongues.

We, the Peoples of the Land—

were your dreamcatchers—

you shred ours apart.

We fed and welcomed you,

you starve and exile us.

Lincoln had 38 Dakota massacred—

the last mass execution in your history.

He proclaimed Thanksgiving

a national holiday as if

gorging, shopping yourselves dizzy

makes amends, “improve relations” with us.

So, we give you this last walking stick,

this broken pot, this tattered basket,

this totem, this potlatch of warning—

you will destroy yourselves

and each other.

The earth, the skies, the waters,

and the fires will give us back

to ourselves.

Mississippi Shelf Life

Here in the Delta, semis won’t come

with something fresh to eat—

no profit for the drive out

to Mom-and-Pops in the boonies—

so, we have dragons in our bellies,

growling with beef jerky,

Pringles, expired Cheetos—

big companies know

salt and fat just make the dragon

want more salt and fat,

and after the need for Little Debbies

or the dragon won’t shut up.

And don’t laugh at us—

looking fat doesn’t mean

you have enough.

Hunger goes deeper

than blubber on bones.

Like I said, our bellies bloat

with the dragon of hunger,

its hoard of backed-up Wonderbread,

and Mac and Cheese grumbling,

twisting around, shooting

flames into our gullets,

knives out of our butts.

It costs, too, all that stuff

shrink-wrapped in plastic

to last in this food swamp—

the crap waits us out forever.

Money goes. Nothing left

for a car. Hell, even if we had one,

no gas to go the miles

to the nearest super—

lettuce, fresh meat, milk—

and the take-back at check-out

for money to get home.

And the dragon keeps clawing,

its eyes knocking from inside our eyes,

maws jamming open our throats,

blowing all that cuss out of our mouths—

hating, yelling, wanting

anyone, anything to take us

off the back shelves of America,

make it stop.

Gregg Yupanki Bautista is a NJ poet, artist, and musician born and raised in the US to Peruvian immigrants. He is the author of the illustrated chapbook Un Lugar Lejos: Valleys (Echo Thread Books, 2024) and releases music under the name Yupanki. He hosts a monthly poetry open mic series in Hopewell, NJ called Poets & Storytellers Open, and runs Echo Thread Books, an independent literary press advocating for and publishing BIPOC writers. Some of Gregg’s poems can be found in The Red Wheelbarrow 18 and in BY THE WAYE No. 2. He is currently working towards the next installment of Un Lugar Lejos, as well as a full length collection of poems.

Brothers

Brother goes in search of food. Brother reads

all the labels. Brother tells our stories with each item

he picks up. Not for sympathy, but because he wishes

we were there. He wants everyone to know us, too.

Brother fills bags and bags with our favorites,

making sure to still get what will keep us strong.

Brother doubles back because he doesn't want to forget

about mom, who works hard to take care of everyone.

Mom never gets to rest, he says.

Dad is smiling, frown lines reconfiguring

to soft crow’s feet while watching brother radiate joy.

The last thing brother picks is a treat for himself and dad.

He reads the label and frowns himself. Does not put it in the bags,

says how little brother is allergic to an ingredient, instead

tucks it under his arm and says to dad,

we’ll have to make sure we only eat this outside,

we need to keep little brother safe. But I sure think

everyone will love all this food we picked.

As he gets in the car, brother wonders what we’ll make first.

Feeling My Name

- after Patricia Smith “Their Savior Was Me”

Here, everything that eats

knows my name, my petulance,

the arrogance shared with my siblings.

With incisors around abdomens, I scar memories,

no mercy granted. Yes, my touch wields

a rampant force when left to linger–unfeal

to ideologies, only to those who let me do my work. I

am unmoved by prayer

or parables of multiplying fish.

I hear daily pleas, weekly ceremonies

to banish me, while many of those same voices

look away when they see my work.

I don’t yield, I watch

as one’s survival is ruled immoral.

In my presence, they must will themselves asleep

as they console themselves with thinking suffering is fortitude.

Isn't that the American Dream? Their voices

beg for salvation through salivation from smells, thinking

just. one. bite.

But I am the wolf here, and they will feel my name.

How Many Birds (Song)

New wings that can fly the fledgelings home cut

through air that must be breathed, must be escaped.

Skylines are pierced by modernity, birds

move among sun scorched fields of steel, a fate

dealt to them in crumbling concrete. Empire

breathes down the backs of the hungry, testing

how long one survives a project designed

to keep fading eyes scaled and worn hands skinned,

too tired to cultivate plumed roots of wings,

roots where caretakers of a quiet earth

sing us an aeolian melody

of sustenance. Some have searched, but our earth

is the only one that knows this song, still

holds ancient language encouraging life.

How Many Birds (Memory)

An ancient language encouraging life

Does not govern machineries built to burn,

Instead colors the air with syllables

Unlocking memories stored deeper

Than skin. Memories that can’t be policed

When sown in fields of possibility.

Even when displaced by settlers, bonds

To land are unbroken, recorded by

Three Sisters, river, and game.

The water, which now continues rising,

Reminds us of the weight of the sky, how

The birds move, weightless. Born to move freely.

Nancy Lubarsky, a retired NJ school superintendent, holds a doctorate in English Education. She has been published in various journals including Exit 13, Lips, Tiferet, Poetic, Stillwater Review and Paterson Literary Review. Nancy is the author of three books: Tattoos (Finishing Line), The Only Proof (Kelsay Press), and her latest book, Truth to the Rumors (Kelsay Press), a finalist for the 2023 Laura Boss Narrative Poetry Award. Her poetry/film collaboration, The Mess (with Sophia Cansalvo) won first place this year in the Moving Words Showcase sponsored by Arts by the People.A lifelong New Jerseyan, Nancy lives in Cranford with her husband and dog, Penny.

New York City, 10 pm

Wall Street is silent, shadowed, as we

drive up behind the “hunger” truck.

The business bustle, the high financiers

and their teams are gone—maybe they’re a

few blocks away finishing drinks and dinner.

The truck is stacked with sandwiches we

made hours before. This is the monthly run.

My husband and I, our kids, are invited guests—

volunteers, witnesses on this journey that began

from my friend’s church in Summit. We bring

not only food, but other wish-list items—soap,

toothpaste, blankets, sweaters. Everything’s

labeled with names and requests. We pull up

to the Manhattan Bridge underpass. It seems

deserted. But slowly figures come into view.

Some huddle around garbage bin fires in filthy,

torn clothes. One woman screams at a hydrant.

Others appear confused, as if they took a

wrong turn. As they slowly edge forward, we

are fearful. Something smells so foul, we cover

our mouths, pretend to sneeze. We are strangers,

but the two men in the truck know many. They

chitchat, use nicknames. We hand out the

sandwiches and hot soup. They toss out the

labeled packages. Soon, the group disperses.

We get ready for the next stop. As the truck

starts up, a man in a shirt and tie, a bit rumpled,

emerges from his car, steps forward. Do you have

any shampoo? They search in the back, find a

small bottle. He thanks them, returns to his car.

Contactless Delivery

She waits behind the door.

We know that. She’s on our list.

It’s early. We just called to say

we are near. She lives alone at the

Royal Motel on Route 1, Room 7.

Our instructions say, Just leave the

bags—stay safe, but we decide

to mask up, knock and wait.

For almost a year we were also

behind a door. We just retired. Our

kids were scared. They told us—Stop

the help, stay inside, don’t risk your

lives. The disease is everywhere. But

we depended on deliveries—other

people who had to leave their homes

to earn a living, who left groceries

on our porch for us to retrieve and

scrub and freeze. We had our family

and enough resources to wait it out.

Was delivery risky? We didn’t think

so. We assured the kids there would

be no contact, no touching, no

exchange of breath. To the right of

her door is a mound of recyclables,

a tent, a bicycle, a beach chair. We

knock again. The door clicks open.

She mumbles something hard to hear.

We glimpse her flowered dress, hand

her the two bags. I try to shake her

hand but she closes the door.

No Line

The crunch of onion peels under

my feet hints at one item that will

fill plastic bags this morning. The

volunteer before me has restocked

the baskets from huge mesh sacks—

the discards of major food chains.

The marker board lists three onions,

two potatoes, one bag of carrots.

There are a few extra apples for the

lucky ones. I judge which bruised

items are still worthy. When no one’s

looking, I slip extra into the bags. At

the next table other volunteers sort

boxed cereal, bagged beans, canned

pears. Often, when I arrive the regulars

are outside, waiting. Especially at the

end of the month when SNAP benefits

run out. Usually, the line snakes out

across the parking lot to the main

avenue. I’m in the back. Sometimes

I forget who’s out there. I don’t get

to check names, listen to stories or

excuses. I don’t talk to their children

who help interpret. Today, I notice

the empty parking lot outside. The

first few in line appear furtive, fearful.

Then I see the sign on the wall that

says who to call if ICE appears.

PoetryLiz HuntJanuary 1, 20262026, January, January 2026, Winter 2026, Winter, Susanna Rich, Susanna, Rich, Veronique, Veronique Manfredini, Manfredini, Gregg, Gregg Yupanki, Yupanki, Bautista, Gregg Yupanki Baustista, Nancy, Nancy Lubarsky, Lubarsky, Poetry X Hunger, Poetry, Hunger