by Marc Labriola
If the needle swung from side to side, it would be a girl. If the needle swung in circles, a boy. Lailah’s three sisters lay her laughing in Ben’s arms as her mother dangled the needle above her belly. Each woman willing the azimuth of the needle like an ancient geographic divination. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
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
Filed under Poetry
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
Filed under Poetry
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
Filed under Poetry
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
Filed under Nonfiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 