by Liz N. Clift
I remember the way we used frosting
to paste graham crackers to the sides of milk cartons,
the way we laid gum drops or Red Hots
for roofing tiles, licorice whips for trim,
sugar cubes mortared with royal icing
as a low stone wall, unlike the wood rail
fences of our own houses, the Necco wafers Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Mark Brazaitis
My marriage was a mistake. She was a nice girl, and she thought I was a nice boy. After a year and eight months, we decided to end things. No harm—well, some harm (I was unfaithful sixty-two days after our wedding and remained so)—no foul.
I was twenty-six-years-old and a bachelor again. Free. Or so I thought. What I didn’t count on was my ex-wife, three months after our divorce, telling me she was pregnant. Toward the end of our marriage, we’d made a certain mournful—and, as it happened, inadequately protected—love.
Filed under Fiction
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
Hawaii Pacific Review 