ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Poem
by Sara Levine


WOLF WHISTLE

A truck drove by as the girls crossed the bridge, and its driver
whistled at them.

"I was farting when you whistled," Louisa shouted. "Why don't you
get out of that truck and I'll blow the next one in your face?"

"No respect for reverie," she said to Red after the driver, startled,
drove off.

Those girls were going to their grandma's house. I know what you was
thinking. Lucky there was two of them. Lucky there was Louisa.

Sara Levine's recent work has appeared in Nerve, The Sonora Review, Alice Blue Review, The Iowa Review, Fence, Denver Quarterly, and other magazines. She teaches writing at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.