by Kiy Pozzi
a gap; a slit; the fissure a cottonwood branch makes at dawn; the stretch of time between thoughts while idling at the window. My mornings are an interstice of leisure from the two obligations that afford me my body, as are the evenings after work. But these intervals are often brief within themselves, being prone to interruption. Earlier it was my neighbor pinholed in the door, an interstice, and now it’s the blue jays going off like car alarms. The moment between their shrill calls becomes one too. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 