by Ace Boggess
(question asked by Savannah Dudley)
Open the 2012 volume of Best American Poetry
& there inside its avocado cover
see my inmate number written in black sharpie
by a C.O. from the mailroom.
A reminder. There’s not much else.
I was never one to accumulate wealth. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Franz Jørgen Neumann
The drives to Clayfield used to take only a few hours, back when Beth and Mira visited their husbands once a month. Now, nearly at the end of Dennis and Dylan’s eight-year sentences, neither woman lives in the same town anymore, and they must rise early in order to manage the trip to Clayfield in a day.
Beth picks up her daughter-in-law before dawn, the sky an ocher-to-indigo gradient that reminds Beth of the interior of a decorative bowl she keeps on her dining table. The ceramic piece holds peeked-at bills, house keys, coins and buttons, a matchbook, and whatever else can be emptied from a pocket. Here, that same gradient is uninterrupted, at least in the eastern sky.
Filed under Fiction
by Ace Boggess
Inmate Buck Berk ran the buffer for an hour before it bumped a chair and the snake leapt out at him. Well, it didn’t so much leap as wobble, its insignificant head slicing the air in a down-up motion more like a woodpecker’s. It bounced a dozen times, then stilled. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 