by Isaac Rankin
Before the nurse can draw back the bay curtain, you cup your hand and yell at a whisper, Your beard makes you look like Jesus! It’s not you but the valium talking, winding it’s way through your veins, preparing your body for a microscopic speck soon to sail for a distant shore.
Filed under Nonfiction
by Joshua Coben
Each time you catch me
writing in bed and ask
if it’s another poem
about your beauty,
Filed under Poetry
by Erika McKitrick
Remember the cemetery
the crypt, French theme
Gentle freckles
Me.
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Filed under Poetry
by Loukia Borrell
When my brother was getting cancer treatment, he’d drive to his townhouse after the appointments, get sick and spend the rest of the night on his sofa, curled up and shivering. It was always the same. Get injected, drive home, get sick, curl up and shiver. On these nights, I would go to Andy’s place, just to be nearby and get him whatever he needed. He always asked for blankets, so I would pile several over him, but nothing was enough to stop his shaking.
Filed under Nonfiction
by MaryAnne Hafen
My mountains bleed into my sky
on paper, and it looks wrong,
but it’s like real life;
virgo at summer’s end.
The world is too strange
to paint as it really is, too filled
with poorly pruned trees.
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 