by Erika Mueller
All I wanted then was to fill my arms with sharp flowers.
– Eavan Boland, “White Hawthorn in the West of Ireland”
It was sometimes light and silent
ones who filled me like poison
wood, or Christmas rose. Their
choke juice like an even tempo.
Others crept in, their thistle jaws
like live wires at my throat, my body,
and their delight of undoing me. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Donna Pucciani
A neighbor offers daisies
from her monstrous clump
that grabs light with fingers
full of sun, edging out
lesser neighbors. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Janine Lehane
The hot wind fastens
on sunhats and shirt flaps
and grim, glowing cheeks.
Red bulldust blears our vision
and the veiled shapes
we label truth. Continue reading
by Reihana Robinson
Because we know you died here
You would think we would tread lightly
camouflage our gaiety our cups of tea
drink less, quit smoking
All ruptures must remain abstract Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Lauren Davis
When I was young, my white-faced cockatiel’s eyes shone black.
He communicated with his erectile crest and cocked head.
I could not read him well. I offered little water, fewer seeds. Once,
I stepped on his tail, tearing it off onto the carpet. I wept a long time.
After, he couldn’t fly right. He kept going off to the side. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 