Posts Tagged: IR online

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IR Online Poetry: “Two Blankees and a Pillow” by Anastasia McCray

Not quite one, two, three consecutive days of frost
     Foretell the beginnings of the Dying Season. To commemorate, a child colors her      doll a shade of suffocation.

Two pairs of shoes, two socks
     Will be added by that third, but not yet ready to let go.

Four cars and a Lego
     Will split skin for the first time and the first time and the first time.

Six monster dolls, seven monster trucks
     Will ride the meat of their fingers, womb-ridged by scales, tired by little.

Three little beds so close to the living
     Will handle as much death as the sickbed, downstairs; these children, so close to      birth, are not done with dying yet.

Millions of glow-in-the-dark suns
     Will flow from a lava lamp, brighter than any single aspiring star could, yet it will      be supernovas deep into the graveyard shift that will light slack jaws.

Countless topless markers, dried out pens,
     Will hide in under-bed altars, prostitutes of provision smelling of aged incense,      and pray for their patron child’s salvation. But all infancies, still, are prophesized      crosses to bear.

One Minnie hat to peacock feathers
     Will become a Mardi Gras goddess, miniature upon a child’s brow, fed sparkles      bright as beads of alcohol, naked on the neck, tangy on the tongue. She will      dream, in vain, of fattening on rotted flesh and childish thoughts.

Timeless, television
     With the dreams of the dying, that pale blue will splash across pale cherubic faces      like an ocean of indecision precise in every lung-fill.
     But not yet those dreams—those dreams!
     Keep them at bay, dark screen in the cold night.

The Dying Season is upon us.
To commemorate, not quite one, two, three pairs of cold feet cross dark wood floor, three children lying on one bed to stave off the cold forever.


Anastasia McCray is the daughter of a military family, the second anastasia-mccrayoldest of six children. She was born in Augusta, Georgia, though most of her childhood was spent moving around with her two brothers closest in age, from Tucson, Arizona to Wurzburg, Germany. Throughout Anastasia’s life, she has always been fascinated with stories and writing. She drew inspiration from the world around her, filling poetry with personal experiences or social injustices. Anastasia found new inspiration when her youngest three siblings were born, and she wrote the piece, “Two Blankees and a Pillow,” about the fear of the first few years of life for the families of children prone to sickness. Currently, she attends Agnes Scott College and is pursuing a degree in Public Health with Anthropology and English minors.

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IR Online Poetry: “The Only Thing You Can’t Undo Is Knowing” by Mallory Hasty

The only thing you can’t undo is knowing.
At least, that’s what liars want you to think.

My hometown is where the fox and hare say goodnight—
i.e. the middle of nowhere.

Out with the old and in with the trash.
Gash on the wrist—and give it a twist.

VICES ONLY is the sign on the door of the afterlife.
THE DEVIL is curling his pointer finger.

Birth certificate—mine’s on papyrus.
The name has been lost in translation.

Hieroglyphics never sound right
In hooked-on-phonics French.

You can order your grave online now:
One-and-a-half bath with an inverted skylight.

Book of nonsense with the dynamite attached;
Torch your own work before the others can get to it.

Everything’s a nunchuck: first used to harvest rice,
But now a device for anything that has to do with the subconscious.

Coffin tied to a tree—I don’t think this poem is for me anymore.
MESSIEURS LES DÉMONS, laissez-moi donc!

Up to my throat in bombs, and in hindsight,
The padlock needed no keys, just a good smashing.

There’s no such thing as a relic without a miracle;
The object needs GOD’S touch with many witnesses.

MALLORY is poking this poem with a match.
The crowd is gawking at this miraculous combustion.


Mallory Hasty is a senior English Writing and Religious Studies double mallory-hastymajor at DePauw University. She is the Managing Editor of A Midwestern Review, DePauw’s undergraduate literary journal. After spending a semester at the University of Edinburgh, she wants to move back to Scotland as soon as possible

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IR Online Fiction: “Trust”by Charlee R. Moseley

You told me about David, a boxer you had dated. He fucked like he fought—graceful, passionate, hard. You said his syllables were so long you thought you’d trip over them. I wondered how I compared to David. What made you leave him and was I making the same fatal mistakes?

“If I wanted David, I wouldn’t be here with you, Sammy,” you said. We had only been together a few short weeks, and you were testing out nicknames. I didn’t know what to do with Sarah. It was already so classic, so simple. I didn’t dare call you sweetheart. You weren’t sweet or sugarcoated.

That was the day I fell in trust with you.

Read more…

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IR Online Table of Contents

Indiana Review Online: An Undergraduate Project

To read the introduction to the issue and view the issue masthead, click here.

Amzie Augusta Dunekacke . . . . . . . . . . . Mikey’s Flag Shirts
Ellen Goff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Little Chicken
Katie Harrs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .The Good Ones Grow With You
Robert Julius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Artist

Tiwaladeoluwa Adekunle . . . . . . . . . . . . even if my spine
W. S. Brewbaker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Garden
John M. Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Liquid Killer Queen
Isabella Escalante . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .The Talking Chalk
Kacey Fang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . After Saying I Love You
Shyanne Marquette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . To Heidi
Carly Jo Olszewski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Y
Meritt Rey Salathe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mary Kay
Sage Yockelson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Explanation For Why We Have Fingerprints


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IR Online Poetry: “even if my spine” by Tiwaladeoluwa Adekunle

“even if my spine”

by Tiwaladeoluwa Adekunle

never recovers,
and my body only learns new ways to recoil
from me,

even if the gaps never inch closed,
and only widen with each passing

there will still, at least be a bird
smaller than my fist, but sailing,
soaring on the belly of life

there will still be winter pristine, summer
soft, golden leaves of autumn floating down, and
dancing at arm’s reach

there will still be the sun singing with
quiet brilliance, the wind brushing skin, stars
studding the night’s sleeve

there will still be God
(there has always been God)
everywhere, even here,
in my body, the frailest
of temples


Tiwaladeoluwa Adekunle is double majoring in International studies and English at University of Kentucky. She is most distracted and most inspired by homesickness, her heartbeat and the ticking of the clock. She was born in southwest Nigeria.