Pacifica Issue 6 Cover Art Preview

Issue 01

Issue 07


Nick Greer

[ Memories ]

Blair Hurley


Amy Lam

Ma Never Wore Nail Polish

Stephen Langlois

Our Boyfriends


Kelli Allen

Walking through the morning

Quenton Baker


Sarah Helen Bates


Jennifer Jackson Berry

My Father’s Dying in Emojis

Brian Cooney

Ars Poetica

Maggie MK Hess



Sierra Jacob

Environmental Elegy

Tyler Kline

The kind of day

James Fujinami Moore

notes after sex

Sarah Kathryn Moore


Kevin Rabas

Praise Band Drums

John Sibley Williams

[what comes before and

K.L. Yuen


Creative Nonfiction Contest Winner

Martha Clarkson

Long Shot


Ira Joel Haber

Seashell Collages

Rachel Rose Ulgado

Affinities From The Furthest Infinities

Cover Art

Rachel Rose Ulgado



Rob Carney

I’m glad I know the ground’s a botanist
and not just something that we stand on.

Grow, it says, and there’s a sapling,
then a tree globed out with peaches. Every autumn

it says, Come here, let’s get those leaves off, baby.
Kind of like science, only much more sexy.

When April comes around, it seeds the air,
and farmers copy it, use pollinators—

bees, of course, and maybe hummingbirds,
highly specialized falcons, though I’m not sure;

I’m not an ornithologist. But bees
definitely. Wild symbiosis.

What a world! Each peach tree a genius.
And smarter than science, since it’s science we can eat.


Asked if she believed she would see her late husband again after her death, Ayn Rand replied that if she did, she would have killed herself so that she could be with him again.

One time, I knew him–no longer.
It is simple. He did not go away.
He did not leave.
He stopped. There is nothing more.
It is simple.

I speak of nothing. I speak of the empty
spaces in front of me. I wonder why. I am not
heard. He cannot hear me. He cannot picture my face
as I picture his–even saying this supposes
that he is. He is not.

The impulse is to deny oneself
nothing. When I want a meal, I eat.
When I am thirsty, I take a drink. Frank
was not food. He was not contained in a cup,
like sweet milk poured from the icy pitcher.
How can I be satisfied?

Would it be prayerful
to use the second person–
to whisper to the dead
from under the sheets of
the quieted bed? That wisp
of a word–you–is not you,
but it might satisfy, instead.

Frank, if I could have lived
without you, I would have left
you–finished our insidious hook
and scrape of wanting, being wanted;
allowed my skin to stop feeling the air for you.

If I believed I would find you again–
after your long time away–I would whirl
into the chilly crowd where you’ve hidden,
come to you singing passion,
lay you in my breath of vapor.


Taking Liberty


Matt Kelsey

The year is nascent still, a foal
  fresh from another body
    learning its own. The temperature
flirts with the vague idea
  of zero. I’m being rezoned. There’s a new
    map drawn in my mind. I take a breath,
then roll call under that. I say
  Fishtown, Nicetown, Germantown Ave,
to keep my jaw warm.
I say jaw warm until my mother
  tongue is dumb, becomes another
    part of the unfamiliar. This New Year’s Eve
I took some risks, small though
  they may have been. I painted my nails
    to reward Sephora’s winner of ten thousand dollars’
worth of polish. (They named it “That’s Just Gret-
  chen” after her—what a disaster.) I glued a white feather
    to the center of a mask, wrapped
a boa ‘round my neck, ducked
  out, having other people to see.
    In South Philly, I passed a woman
ascending her stairs who stopped
  and said Well Happy New Year, Darlin!
    with equal parts warmth and worry,
as if I were one of her own,
  as if I must be someone else
    moving forward.