by Ted McCarthy
We were so far from being different.
The world, if it had cared
to look, would have seen itself reflected
in everything we said,
two kids walking through a wind
that blew across the cold harbour
of our minds, the little we’d read. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Bryce Berkowitz
after Donika Ross Kelly
We live in Carbondale, Illinois.
We have a wood stove, a TV antenna, and a deer head hanging on the wall.
Mom decorates it with Christmas lights, a Santa hat, and calls it Rudolph.
My favorite things are secrets, sugar-strawberries,
and pretending chopped logs are bazookas. I pick green beans in the garden
and play basketball with Dad at sunset. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Ella Flores
Even now, everything is ending.
No one knows this, but I am
fairly young, still new to, of, for
this world. Even after
all this time, I have no words
for my diving and rising, newing and unnewing, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Arielle Kaimana Taramasco
as bees are soothed by smoke
I was calmed by yours
you came into my home
my buzzing turmoil
diminished with a whiff
of your cigarette Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Hannah Allen
As a child, I thought I was God.
So when dark and humid air lay into us
at a gas station in Havana, Arkansas
near the base of Mount Magazine
as my father stood outside
to pump fuel, raised his fists, and sang
angry hymns to God, I thought he
was speaking to me. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 