By John Davis
It was several years before I told you how close I came to death.
It had been months.
I was trying to sew memories
of home into my back pocket.
I looked for moments to
rip them out and make them move like something alive. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
By Mark Belair
A toddler in a stroller
was absorbed in
a one-on-one encounter
with a lollipop
she held
so close to her face
her eyes crossed
as she talked with a frown Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Doug Ramspeck
He can’t be certain how much he actually remembers and how much he has been told by his mother. The stories and his memories are the vine and the tree so intertwined you can’t know to distinguish one from the next. He does know he was very young in that time before they left for the United States. His father showed him how to hide beneath the Baobab tree behind their house. It was a great tree, as old as the moon—or so his father teased—with spirits waiting in the fruit from which they sometimes made a porridge. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Daniel Pecchenino
Every few years
I lose the plot.
What came before
is submerged
beneath what is,
and now becomes
the past’s new
point of departure. Continue reading
by David R. DiSarro
There were always
sad women,
striped socks, tattoos,
the names of ex-husbands,
strained against
low cotton tops. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 