by Deborah Schwartz
I hear my fizzy head ask the outside world for quiet. Forget it.
Those voices inside me are broadcasting my child labor
of anger, I ask them all to please be lighter. They’re fighters.
This page, for instance, made clearer by the margin,
I try to declutter like zippers that I sew onto the fly of my jeans
for a salary that no one can live on or marry. My mother. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 