by Lawrence Bridges
You’re playful but maybe you should focus
on last words. This light in your window
isn’t on a timer for Christmas. Outside lights,
Yes. Whoever lives in this house will see
its gingerbread lines and, in fact, might
sleep in your modest workroom, stripped of books
degrees, and mementos. This is a morbid street. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by B.M. Owens
Imagine swimming in a pool. No, imagine living in that pool. Imagine that pool being all that exists in the world to you. The pool is your world and your world is 35 feet wide and 12-20 feet deep. You are 20 feet long and swim in constant circles as children bang on the see-through glass tank. High pitched whistles sound and you breach but you’re not sure why. You’re given food. That’s why. You continue your circles, you’re making something. The water laps around the sides. Your fins guide the water with incantations others don’t understand—you don’t really understand them either. You swim and swim and you’re still here, swimming. A whirl pool forms at the center. This is it—You charge toward it, hoping the water sucks you in. That it’ll tear holes into the bottom of the tank—into reality. That it’ll pluck and sweep you into deep waters. That it’ll bring you home out to the Pacific ocean or, at least, drown you. But it doesn’t. The water settles. Your body is stiff as you float beneath the Florida sun. Maybe if you’re still enough the heat will melt your blubber and you can ooze out of here through the drains. The sun only blisters your skin but you don’t seek shade because you already know there isn’t any. This is all there is—this pool is your world. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Dan Leach
Then came the summer
the ponds went dry
and everyone’s grass turned
the color of bone.
Streets became graveyards
and even the pool
with its pale green promise
yawned in the distance
like a forgotten church. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor
Write poems that peek at this mess
like dawn light from curtains of cloud,
or the red throated pouch poems
that perch on tree carcasses just
after a storm when begging sounds
are misunderstood as singing. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Natalie Gerich Brabson
Pressing my nose against the smudged windowpane, I spot a gleaming government building topped with proud angels. Wings outstretched, they stand triumphing against the skyglow. Our bus tumbles on over cobblestone streets, and soon, we round the bend and pass the Atocha station. The station’s glass panes reflect thousands of traffic lights. The bus lurches up the ramp. Squinting against the light, I crane my neck to catch a last glimpse of central Madrid for now. We’ll spend most of this week at the school. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 