by Francine Witte
Bloom isn’t much. Near 60, and like a bag of saggy potatoes. On top of that he smells. Like urine mixed with tobacco. But there are women, a number of them now, who find his odd smell sexy. Animal pheromones it says to their lonely vaginas. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Francine Witte
is just for the moment. Everything
has to go back. Even the sky,
all grabby with rain, at some point,
will have to let go. Continue reading
by Francine Witte
is watching her mother whose eyes
are windowed with tears. Damn onions,
the mother says, but the daughter knows
better. She knows that the tears are for
the husband/father who left last week,
who took his cufflinks, his clothing, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 