Santalucia

by Nicole Santalucia

I always thought my last name came from a boat
that sailed across the world
but I was confused
that was the Santa Maria

not that my name hasn’t traveled on boats
or shined shoes
or sewed the soles of feet Continue reading

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Garden Party

by Kate Kingston

From a porch overlooking a garden,
a prepositional phrase
flings itself over the balcony landing face-first
in a throng of nouns
all holding active verbs like revolvers
and stringing conjunctions
between them like safety nets. Continue reading

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Dallas

by Ben Heins

And in that mouth,
in that black hole
of dangling stars

I’m staring at so many things:
your teeth, pink inner-cheek, tongue.
Continue reading

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Lai`eikawai

by Mary Alexandra Agner

Woman in the twilight, last sun
on the pali, brightness dwindling
in the mountains’ misty lei,
I have paddled island to island
for the awe in a storyteller’s voice.
Step down onto the birds’ wings
step down onto the night beach
and speak to me in the moonlight Continue reading

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Guns and Country

by Meg Thompson

“To him who is in fear, everything rustles.” — Sophocles

I grew up watching my dad aim at groundhogs out the kitchen window. This is to say, my parents are rednecks. There are many variations of redneck, and they are the quiet and meditative kind. You can tell because they rarely speak or leave their farm. My dad has spent most of his life smoking cigarettes in a field, staring at the heifers. My mom has spent most of hers wondering where my dad is. Getting a glimpse of them out in public is like sighting wolverines. Continue reading

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