by Kim Cope Tait
The visceral language of the Valley shivers us awake.
Here, even the way the sky opens up is a triangle.
The bodies of the white birds, the ordered pattern of their flight,
the tops of pine trees, the path the rain takes from earth to sea: all
open into three angles that sing the geometric precision
of this place. This water holds the nascent memory of form, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Pepper Trail
After a strange, invigorating dream
I woke in the far Pacific, sailing east
Toward Rapa Nui, the long hard faces
Waiting, ready to crack a smile at last
To share in the joke of our ruination
Before relaxing into wind-smooth stone Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Mollie McNeil
Despite her daughter-in-law giving her the stink eye, Muriel remained composed, holding her fork high as she swallowed the last bite of Claire’s too rich beef bourguignon. She resisted yawning while the strangers on either side of her prattled on about a school fund-raiser, and instead watched her son, Tom, flashing his whitened smile and smoothly refilling his guests’ wineglasses with a quick twist of his wrist. Tom was a dentist, good with his hands, and always seemed to know just how much novocaine was needed in any situation. Muriel cleared the table before excusing herself from the party, hugged her son happy birthday, and exited the room, she hoped, before anyone noticed her mounting irritation. Why couldn’t Claire just throw a backyard picnic for Tom instead of these tiresome sit-down affairs? A grinding headache had descended on her. Plus her shoes pinched. She slipped them off in the dim hallway and headed toward the bathroom in search of aspirin. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Vivian Faith Prescott
Acquire animal skills.
Become a loon, a haunting crier,
swallowing the remains of this world underwater.
Learn to skin. Yourself.
Pull your feathered hood
over your head, adjust your chinstrap
to your throat.
Know where the sacred places are,
because there is no Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Monica Drake
(from her new collection The Folly of Loving Life)
Our dad, when he taught forensic science, said it was the art of looking at a problem and tracking backward, analyzing the smallest pieces to find out where things went wrong. When he actually did lab work, it usually involved investigating tampered with or otherwise faulty pre-packed food. He’d analyze unknown objects found in a box of cereal, a can of soup, a carton of orange juice. He’d determine if an item was molding mouse feet, somebody’s fingers lost in an industrial accident, or only an ordinary clump of burned cereal ingredients that had fallen off industrial machinery into the Wheatie-O’s mix. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 