Issue Number
Pacifica Literary Review


Matt Muth

Managing Editor

Courtney Johnson

Paul Vega (Prose)

Sarina Sheth (Poetry)

Fiction Editors

Rachael Armstrong

Lyndsay Field

Chelsea Werner-Jatzke

Poetry Editors

Kate Henry

Willie James


Ryan Diaz

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Issue 01

Issue 04


Genevieve Hudson

Date Book

Maxim Loskutoff

Medicine Lake

Nicolete Polek


Nathan Poole

They Were Calling to One Another

Travis A. Sharp

Selected Ru(m)inations


Ace Boggess

“When Will You Be Off Paper?”

Brian Cooney


Brittany Dennison

Pocket Dial

Sarah Feldman

Orpheus, Singing

Kevin Honold

That the Soul Takes the Shape of the Body

The Girl’s Letter to the Moon

Clay Jar of Wine

Dane Karnick

To What’s Missing

Ron McFarland

Battle Hardened


Jon Garaizar


Lance Hewison


Niki Waters


Cover Art

Jon Garaizar

Wild Flowers


Kara Daly

sprinkle a little baking soda
baby I’ll get the evil right out of you
not because I’m a woman
but because I know
how to love something clean
and I don’t take no shit
not from no man
no stains on the stovetop

god gave me a body with which
to grow life not because
I’m a woman
but because I know how
to hold on—long
before I was born I said, yes god
I’ll hold another human
I’ll carry them all, give
me their trespasses, forgive
me their sins, lead them
through this body, relieve
them of this mind—

and every month my body
gathers like wild flowers
this world’s grief
and weeps




Jeff Whitney

I’ve learned how to say A horse running through water.
Still working on the forest is burning! the forest is burning!

In the first days, before humans and kangaroos, the whole world was water.
Now anyone can walk, hands in pockets, counting the sky’s many burns.

The morning had to go somewhere. So we let it. The way
humans herd a whipping fire to keep the whole forest from burning.

Longest day of the year and still too short by half, I would say.
Candles: that’s how we must go: snuffed out, slightly burning.

That Plexiglas on the bridge? People used to jump from there,
their screams like sounds of an alternate realm where everything was burning.

Horses like oilrigs along the plain.
The sun behind them, burning.




Brian Cooney

Planes crash with depressing infrequency.
Repetition of falling feathers, dun
Dutch feet, makes us forget there was only
One Icarus. He lived fast and died young.
I wonder if he inspired a spree
Of Greek jumpers, the way Werther blew out
The brains of European kids, if he,
Pre-sex, androgynous, was the last shout
On Sappho’s tongue as she broke up into
A thousand shards that we’d puzzle over,
Mazes where the tiptoeing Minotaur
Never strikes, just waits, out of sight, hovers,
Drags it out, you stumbling around with torch
Fizzling like the sun foundering in the sea.