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
by Roger Real Drouin
Solitudo County
Up here on big flat there’s only the low, constant hum of the compressors. And the wind rough against the truck, whipping against the rig. Oscar sips the last of the coffee from the thermos, and he thinks of his girls, warm inside far away, sound asleep.
He listens for the wolf, listens past the hemlock and cedar, but there is only the wind. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 