by Gregory Pōmaikaʻi Gushiken
Māmā inhales Sunday
A Benson & Hedges Luxury Pack
Her chest, the billowing Pacific
Each breath an ocean river
Filling the soft space
Left by fleeting fathers
With tender carcinogens and tar
Sealing sandy sores Continue reading
by Howard Sage
Through June and half
July, static apple
green outside my window
caught my morning eyes.
Then (I don’t know how) pink began
to tinge and turn the
sour green. I should
have smiled as pink looked
through the leaves at me, Continue reading
by John Coyne
I was seven or eight years old when I got so drunk at a family party that I ran out of our farm house, down to the barn, and attacked our big brown Swiss cow with a broom.
I don’t remember this act of animal cruelty, but the next morning, when I woke from a stupor, my mother—as well as my brothers and sisters—told me in detail how I had impishly sipped booze left in cans and glasses on the dining room table until I was so intoxicated my suppressed rage at one of our milking cows exploded into violence. Continue reading
by Natalie Homer
Have the skeleton ships succumbed
to barnacles & rust, the salt wash of the sea?
And the little A-frame named “It’ll Do”—
is it still there, safe in the hemlock?
I wanted so badly for you to be home. Continue reading
as told to Glenn Ingersoll
Excerpt from Autobiography of a Book
I like to imagine you holding me. I may just be a book but I have an imagination. And what I imagine is your hands.
Your hands holding me so I don’t fall down, so your eyes can get a good look at me, a good look at everything. I hold nothing back. And you hold it all. I like that, thinking of you. Continue reading