by Eric Paul Shaffer
_____ If a moment under the sun happened only once,
that would be one, but as I lay in the sunlight reading,
a shadow flicked over the page beneath my eyes.
I looked into the light, and through the clouds soared
_____the ‘iwa, the glorious crook-winged glider of sea
and shore, veering waveward after a long, luxurious turn Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Ann Yuan
I have a cold uterus.
It’s hard to explain. In traditional Chinese medicine, one cause of infertility is that your uterus is too cold. Of course, when they say “cold,” it doesn’t mean it’s cold to touch. Also, the term “uterus” includes the whole set of reproductive systems instead of just the pear-shaped organ itself. The point is, you have to provide an optimal environment in order to grow something as delicate as a fertilized egg. Continue reading
by Connor Donovan
We don’t speak of it anymore: the hilltop
bonfires holding natural light, bottlenecking
the cans & burning them green. The cathedral
clock tower above us like a jaundiced eye.
Being passed an apple packed with burnt nubs
—sucking where everyone had already sucked. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Court Ludwick
In the wooden swing, in our backyard, in the darkest part of summer right before my seventh-grade year, my mother suddenly grabs me. She grabs the smallest part of my wrist, twisting hard so this fragile underbelly of mine faces up toward the sky and I become a fractal under the light turned shadow, under the overhead tree, under the dimple-making leaves that will eventually flake and fall and die and be swept up by my father’s metal rake.
My mother’s index finger and thumb are bony. Her tanned skin stretches tighter here than finger skin should stretch. No wrinkles. Knuckles smoothed out like knuckles never look. Acrylic nails painted fuchsia pink because true red is for whores. I imagine she tells me this once. No smile lines when I look at her face. In between her eyebrows, there is one line, a sweet deep furrow. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Emma Lee
(Kyiv, December 2023)
A fir tree stands in a pot outside an apartment block,
that has one wall crumpled into rubble.
Branches have been decorated with sparkly cobwebs, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 