Size / / /

they meant you more than they meant themselves;
your hand upraised indicating the ironic vibrancy
of jupiter and venus, the line they made ending
at a rust-tinged dot that was mars; and sirius
like a bauble off orion's belt, the giant
red dot on the hunter's shoulder like a scar.

your voice was worn to a waver, like trying to hold steady
the binoculars which made a blur of observation.
later you were opened to sight, and you became the hidden bustle
of the beehive in your gut, a sick constellation of melanoma mapping you
which these words map against. these words, how weak, to hold you,
as you held me, in that moment before you became more starlight
than man, more mist-stain than mind; o weak words,
keep him, once more, once more, together, tonight.




Andrew Brenza lives and writes in the Philadelphia area with his wife and young son. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Shampoo, Glitterpony, Jellyfish, and/or, Sawbuck, and The Scrambler, among others.  He is obsessed with cold seeps, hot vents, and tidal pools.
Current Issue
4 Nov 2024

“Did you know,” the witch says, “that a witch has no heart of her own?”
Outsiders, Off-worlders {how quickly one carves out a corner of the cosmos, / claims a singular celestial body as [o u r s] in the scope of infinity}
Lunar enby folks across here
Wednesday: The 2024 Ignyte Award for Best Novel Shortlist, Part Two 
Friday: A Place Between Waking and Forgetting by Eugen Bacon 
Issue 28 Oct 2024
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By: KT Bryski
Podcast read by: Devin Martin
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By: Christopher Blake
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
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By: LeeAnn Perry
Art by: nino
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