Hawaii Pacific Review

by hipacificreview | 12/07/2023 · 5:27 am

A Little Too Much Jesus

by John Picard

“Please order a drink everyone,” Kate said. “I mean it, Chuck. I know how you like your vodka martinis.”

“Are you sure?” Laura said.

“Positive. We talked a lot about social drinking at the Center. A big part of recovery is abstaining around other drinkers. This’ll be good practice.”

“I’ll feel awfully funny if I do,” Laura said.

“I’ll feel awfully funny if you don’t. I’m serious. The house chardonnay is excellent here.”

“Let me just say, Katie,” Chuck said, “that you’re one of the strongest, bravest women I know.”

I could feel some pressure on my right temple. I couldn’t be around Chuck, a car salesman with the personality to match, without a getting a headache.

“Anyway,” Laura said, “you look fantastic. You really do.”

“I lost sixteen pounds. That’s what cutting a thousand liquid calories out of your daily diet will do.” Continue reading →

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction

Tagged as alcoholism, Fiction, John Picard, recovery, Religion

by hipacificreview | 12/04/2023 · 5:49 am

Migration

by Ann Cefola

–For Katherine Tompkins McCollom (1923-2019)

Each late September day, a monarch crosses my path, looping on air—
a trampoline, a highway, a portal; voyager from Vermont, milkweed-fat and nectar-full,
heading always—I turn to face it too—south, from plaited cornfields
relieved of spiked gold—knee-high by the Fourth of July— Continue reading →

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

Tagged as Ann Cefola, Katherine Tompkins McCollom, mexico, Poetry, vermont

by hipacificreview | 11/30/2023 · 6:35 am

FR 232

by R.A. Pavoldi

Alan used to haul lobster from this bay
pulling traps from the thick breathing air,

dove under in winter for urchins spiny
and cold on the dark green shelves,

a slow crab breathing through a hose
while his life held its breath waiting above. Continue reading →

Shut Down Red Hill

by Terra Oliveira

four & a half million people
visit the island of O`ahu
per year, watch the red sun
climb down into the Pacific,
escape into paradise, laugh
with the water

as petroleum from Red Hill
leaks under the island, Continue reading →

All One Time

by Michael Copperman

When I saw uncle Robert out back of my Aunty Ruby’s house after mochi-making a few days before the New Year, I was in my early twenties and he seemed unchanged from my memories of childhood. His weathered koa skin was carved with deep smile-lines, and he still was spry, always the first to leap to help to lift a table or shoulder a bag of rice. It was the first time I’d been back to the islands since my grandpa’s funeral—probably seven years before—and Robert set his veiny brown hand on my shoulder and squeezed a greeting, then held out two plastic bags of pomelos the size of basketballs. “For you!” He sat down next to me on the cinder block beneath the eaves. “I know you Lynny boy, you always liked da kine jabon. You always ate ‘em till they were gone. Bet you still like peel ‘em to eat ‘em all one time, eh? I show you how.” Continue reading →