by Rain Wright
Sister taps against headlights on the memories of the dead
horse killed by the car on the thread of a highway
at night while she dipped and rocked against dark tides
in the rain swift odor of the redwood built Hōnaunau
house with wounded light of shadow beneath
the mango and avocado hitting tin roof Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Filed under Poetry
By Hannah Dow
A man and a woman build a house of stones.
They do not build a roof because it never rains.
After two days, they say, what shall we drink?
The water, says the woman. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by T.J. Sandella
Somewhere, there’s a woman
who really loves trees. Perhaps
you think that adverb lazy, but I’m here
to tell you that I’m a man
who loves trees. I’ve learned their names: Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Kate Peterson
If estrangement is an ongoing death
with no resolution, then what is living
with a man who strangles you with his eyes?
Do you not die every morning when the clouds
glow grey? You hear glass break in the sink,
his morning mantra of blood and fists,
and all you want is coffee—pleasure you can count on.
The shrink says it’s narcissism,
clinical, undeniable, and you should pack a bag,
bring the nest shaped chair if you must, but you must
run. You know this. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 