5:15 Monday Morning

By Grace McAllister | Poetry | Spring 2019

Image by Bridget Conway

1010 WINS makes me sicker in a tunnel, canned voices grate

the same way as the too-fast orange lights.

My dad drives in quiet sympathy.
Everything seems too fast and too slow at once

Or not too slow, but too fast and too empty,

Like leaving town gives every detail an unearned gravity

Which makes the face of each passing building so overwhelmingly rich
That I know I’ll remember none of it.

Before dawn, the whole world gleams

like wet pavement, and every light is the diluted reflection of a light.

All weak and watery


Ode to Eve

By Grace McAllister | Poetry | Spring 2019

Image from the Spring 2019 issue

Gin and ginger ale in hand and
on the worst night of my life,
Eve awarded me my jacket and charged
her marines boyfriend with taking
me home.

Eve is making potato leek soup,
the scales of justice dangling
from her ladle hand as she asks
me to grab the wine from the fridge

We’re at a hotel party
some misguided boy urged her to come to
in his own style of low-effort seduction.
We’re at the McDonald’s on New Year’s,
sipping soda through the too-wide straws.

We’re shivering on Brighton Beach
blue white legs prematurely in shorts,
sunlight deceptively cold as we weigh
down our blanket with our full backpacks.

Graphic Arts

Issue Artwork, Spring 2019

by Wilder Voice Artists | Graphic Arts | Spring 2019

The following works appear independent of any print piece in the Spring 2019 issue.


I Catch Myself

by Grace McAllister | Poetry | Fall 2018

Art by Jacob Butcher

I like to catch myself in a window,
as my form shocks a storefront
or to see my eyes drip down my cheeks
in someone else’s eyeglasses.
In a shadow, my hand
hangs on to my wrist by spit
my expanding-contracting neck
shifting over my dendritic arms.
Car windows tell me
I put myself on the line for vanity,
and lobby doors tell me
my triangle nose points
telling my triangle coat
where to go.