by Anna Meister

Brexpiprazole Anti-Ode

Like a hoodie I wear my disordered thoughts, clutching
a crystal rumored to take away my toxins.
My god, the nerve.
Pour more wine over the whiskey, pretend its a vinegar tonic 
while I snitch on the neighbor, his smoke rising.
Straight up I dont feel bad about it.
What I feel is jacked
having swallowed this dumb little sun
for months shaping me like a loaf. I didnt know
it would grow me softer. Now
when a silo is passed, I think family.
Theres something dirty in the knot of me.
Why do I worry a stranger doesnt see me
as small? Just see me at all.
I couldve been gone a million times.

Anna Meister is author of the chapbooks NOTHING GRANTED (dancing girl press, 2016) & As If (Glass Poetry Press, forthcoming) & holds an MFA from New York University, where she was a Goldwater Writing Fellow. Her poems have appeared in Big Lucks, Kenyon Review, The Arkansas International, The Shallow Ends, & elsewhere. A 2015 Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts fellow & 2017 National Poetry Series finalist, Anna lives in Des Moines, IA & at 

by Simon Perchik

And though it’s your hands that are cold...

And though it’s your hands that are cold you sleep

with slippers on, weighed down the way shadows

change places to show what death will be like


before it gets darkeven in bed you limp, the blanket

backing away and you hang on, want to be there

still standing yet you can’t remember if it’s more rain


or just that your fingers are wet from falling in love

and every time they pass your lips it’s these slippers

that save you from drowning, let you go on, caress


something that is not dressed in white, disguised

as the warm breath thrown over the headboard

smelling from cemeteries without moving your feet.


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Weston Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2020. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.comTo view one of his interviews please follow this link.

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by Andrew McDonald

The void is no void (I)

The flowers are open at night, 

which makes me think they’re dying, maybe

or within hailing distance, 

at least in terms of road games. 


I spend a lot of time standing in line, 

trying not to look like a teenager, 

Scrolling through apps that track risk factors 

that seem stupid to track.


The sea passes 

rolling dead boats on dead sea.

You sit there 

in yoga pants 

blinking at Netflix. 


I’m the space between two ancient organisms: 

Car Show and Pneumonia.

A zookeeper feeding the finicky elephant. 


We should get a drink this week. Sit

in the yard on the first day of school

trying to remember the meaning 

of the children’s names.


The game of life 

every day all day.


Andrew McDonald is a writer from Boston, MA who lives in Brooklyn, NY. His work has appeared in The Ibis Head Review and THAT Literary Review

The lines in the final stanza of "The void is no void (2)" (For thine is the power…) are borrowed from Don DeLillo's Americana.


by Andrew McDonald

The void is no void (2)

Facebook tells me she’s leaving Lisbon. 

Like you the heat comes on hissing. 


It’s raining. 

Things in the back yard 

are getting ruined. 

Let them be. 

Lose track of the things 

in the yard. 


If you’re one of those people 

who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, 

it’s kind of incurable, 

except in the presence, maybe, 

of the right cat. 


I don’t know. 

What’s the way to discover the soul, 

a hide for the men to tan, 

except sitting back 

and letting the world vote on it. 



“I’ve been reading the Confessions of St. Augustine,”

Man who is only a small portion 

of what you have created. 

was how I started conversation

at the mixer for creative advertising professionals.


For thine is the power and the power

Forever and ever,

oh man.


Andrew McDonald is a writer from Boston, MA who lives in Brooklyn, NY. His work has appeared in The Ibis Head Review and THAT Literary Review

The lines in the final stanza of "The void is no void (2)" (For thine is the power…) are borrowed from Don DeLillo's Americana.


by Ian David Clark

Three Ways of Seeing My Brother as an Anonymous Body


Here’s how you skin a fish, he says as he stoops shirtless over the sink with his knife stogged in a trout’s gills. Slit the seam of the stomach, pull out the guts, cut away the scaly skin. He gestures with the knife as he works and wipes the blade on the thigh of his sweatpants. 

It’s December and the first snow has fallen but there’s no heat in the RV besides the space heater. I’m sitting on the couch, watching my brother work his knife, his jumble of limbs sweating despite the cold, the balloon of his gut expanding and contracting and expanding and contracting again. The interstate running parallel to the trailer park is humming. 

My brother dumps the intestines in a mug and stares down at the shredded remains of the fish. This will go nice with a lemon and some butter, he says, but I know my brother isn’t talking to me as I sit on the couch, nor is he talking to the metal shell of his RV, nor is he trying to make words out of the traffic rattling along the highway. I know my brother is alone even as he pretends to participate in the world of the living, lying awake inside the cold room of his brain with all his quivering cells.



I want to know about your brother, and where he’s living now, and what he’s doing to keep himself busy, Mr. O’Shaughnessy says, eyeing the yellowing leaves of my discounted cabbage. I still remember the Bellarmine sack of ‘01, he says. I remember that fine piece of work like it was yesterday. He was always a good kid, your older brother. He was always a fine young man.

Mr. O’Shaughnessy is a real piece of shit. He’s a math teacher and the assistant football coach at my high school and after every home game he finishes a bottle of bourbon and slaps his wife. Everyone knows it but no one says anything. And so now we’ve run into each other in the Albertson’s produce aisle and Mr. O’Shaughnessy is pretending he’s thoughtful and kind, telling me all about my brother’s finest moment on the gridiron. He was a revelation that night, Mr. O’Shaughnessy says, he was slicing through Bellarmine’s offensive line like a knife through butter. That strip sack turned the tide of the game, brought home the championship for the first time in a decade. I don’t expect I’ll ever forget it.

Neither will I. It was October, as I recall. I sat in the stands with Mom watching my brother’s shoulders and thighs bulldoze the visiting quarterback. There was a flash of glittering spandex and the glare of stadium lights on my brother’s helmet and then Bellarmine’s quarterback was writhing on the ground, clutching a broken collarbone. He was fucked up, that’s for sure. He lost a chance at an NCAA scholarship but nobody noticed because my brother had the ball and he ran it all the way to the 15 and it took three linemen to bring him down. The home crowd erupted with cheers and all the coaches waved their clipboards and the whole secondary slapped my brother’s ass. I watched him walk to the sideline with his head bowed. Mr. O’Shaughnessy touched him on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear and suddenly I thought of the time when I visited my brother after school to watch him practice. Mom dropped me off on the way to one of her three part-time jobs. It was raining and the field was a mess and from the stands I could tell that my brother was not doing a good job. He lunged for the running back and slipped facedown in the mud and there was Mr. O’Shaughnessy, red-faced and screaming about the uselessness of pussies who couldn’t make a tackle. You stay down there, he bellowed at my brother’s prone form, you stay down there and think about what kind of loser you want to be. Later that night I heard my brother crying beneath me on the bottom bunk, sobbing and gasping for air. Even then I knew he was drowning, but I was the only one who could see, because it was Friday night, and my brother had just turned the tide in the championship game, and Mr. O’Shaughnessy was touching his shoulder.

I stare down at my discounted cabbage. $1.00 a pound: what a steal. 

You tell me if you hear anything about him, Mr. O’Shaughnessy says as he turns his cart toward the citrus. He was always a fine young man and I’d like to know that he’s doing well. I’d like to know he’s making his way in the world. Mr. O’Shaughnessy walks away and I toss my cabbage back to its discounted heap. I save $1.00 a pound so I can bring Mom some change. Outside in the parking lot I trundle my shopping cart through puddles of newspapers. I imagine my brother walking toward me beneath the flickering street lights, waving and beckoning me home for a feast of full-price cabbages, and even from this imaginary distance I see he’s a fine specimen of a man. I marvel at the movement of his shoulders and thighs.



Once when we were kids we found a baby mole stuck in the storm drain. It was April and the gutters were overflowing with rain and the mole was wedged between the bars over the sewer, a sodden bedraggled body hanging suspended over a roaring tide of waste. My brother brought it inside, wrapped it in a towel, and tried to feed it a glass of milk. I told him that his big stupid hands would break it, that moles weren’t supposed to drink milk, that once you touched an animal its mom would never take it back. Stop touching it, I said, stop touching it now before you break it.

My brother sat on the couch in our living room, holding the mole in its towel. He was alone in the big stupid bulk of his body. Later, when Mom got home from work at the drive-thru, she screamed and said what is that thing, what is that thing, what is that small and eyeless thing dripping all over the carpet?


Ian David Clark is a PhD candidate in English and American Literature at Washington University in St. Louis. He earned his master’s in Irish Writing at Trinity College Dublin, and currently studies twentieth century British and Irish literature. His short fiction has appeared in the Denver-based online magazine Fried. In his spare time, Ian enjoys drinking coffee and taking his adopted corgi for long walks.