Pacifica Issue 9 Cover Art Preview

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Issue 01

Issue 09

CONTENTS
Prose

Ahsan Butt

Majid Uncle

Gen del Raye

A Shark is an Animal That Blushes When You Touch Its Face

Paula Delgado-Kling

A Kidnapping

Rachel Linn

Anchor

Poetry

Jake Bauer

A Wedding

Bill Carty

Experiments with Solids, Mutual Fish

Caylin Capra-Thomas

Riverine

Mackenzie Cole

No Longer

Sarah B. Puschmann

Dear Maraschino Cherry

Maya Jewell Zeller

Black Plastic Night, Self-Portrait With Nudity and False Awakening

2017 Poetry Contest Winners

Alex Bleecker

Today is a 5.

Trinity Tibe

Resemblance

Art

Jean Wolff

Cover Art

Ryan Diaz

Mother, the snowbird from Upstate New York,
has the stature of a stork carrying babies
across state lines. She’s in the Sunshine State now—
no, not Disney World for this bird who favors Snow White
because she was born before she was born,

but in the country. Here is the real Florida, she says,
parking her six-speed in Clermont on Main Street.
I wait and look for elderly Americans, but there’s nothing.
This is kenopsia1 before I knew the word but first felt it.
She doesn’t see all that is misplaced but wants to go inside

all the antique shops run by ex-snowbirds.
Then she flies me down the hill to the water’s edge.
There are usually waves, she says. Another thing missing.
My snowbird really does love snow though, so it’s weird
to see her nested in the land of sweltered days and 4 PM rain.

She watches too much TLC now, takes reality
television for reality. On her birthday,
she doesn’t feel like going down to the pool.
Instead, for the second time, she watches
the DVD proving Heaven to be true.

The snowbird was good at working her way
down the Eastern Seaboard. New England: A home once.
Then a ten-year Virginian detour in a little yellow birdhouse.
I wondered why you didn’t stay, snowbird—you loved all 4 seasons,
and I’ve never been convinced of your reasoning.

Snowbird, today I thought of you when reading
a quote from a woman who pruned her identity
from all her actions. She said, “I was driven
out of my house by the fear of losing it.”
I know why you go now, so I don’t need to ask:

In the beginning
you flew for God, or the fear of losing him;
and then for me to be born… or the fear of losing out;
nd then for us to find peace, or the fear of losing it,
and then to chase love South, the fear of losing him.

At Homosassa Springs I tell you how the flamingoes
stopped me in my tracks with their electric pink
and perfect tree pose. But they are like ostriches
when they hide their faces in the zoo water, and soon
I notice that your plume don’t look so good, mother.

1n. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.

Jan-31-2017

20160130:   finger biting

20160201:   your bare feet on my wooden floor

20160203:   the colors teal and purple

20160207:   photocopying a picture of your eyes

20160221:   chasing geese

20160229:   taking the vase of hydrangeas for a walk around the
        apartment

20160304:   you chugging a mountain dew

20160308:   rolling up currency and smoking it

20160309:   a sequestered jury falling in love

20160311:   the world being so small

20160320:   you forcing various fermented grain mash down

20160321:   you forcing various fermented grain mash down

20160322:   you forcing various fermented grain mash down

Continue Reading . . .

Jan-27-2017

Montaigne calls it a children’s story, the death of Croesus, his final plea to Solon. Myself, I didn’t hear this one when I was a tyke, and mostly I think today’s youth don’t know it. I do remember the urban myth of the black boy, strapped to The Big Chair, whispering Help me Joe Louis, help me and my dad’s stories of the Brown Bomber, punch drunk and broke, paid by wiseguys to walk them into court. The legend goes that only at the end did Croesus feel what philosophers had always preached: you cannot judge a life until it’s through. Our late stoic, Yogi Berra, said In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice; in practice, there is. Today, we have the anodyne “he died doing what he loved” and use it when the diver gets eaten by a shark or comes crashing through the Sol-a-tube. It’s a question of timing really: you are “doing what you love,” livin’ the life, as t-shirts say, and then: wham. Three-ish tons and 20-plus feet of “Deep Blue,” a postmortem report that’s all bite radius and blunt force trauma. Yogi: It ain’t over ‘til it’s over, and when it is, it fits into a shoebox. Kids will lick cupcakes, because cooties, they know, say I AM, like revenge, like pox sent to Europe, like Instagram photos of that last jump, that one last dip. Montaigne, again: few men know when they’ve reached their final hour. Yogi: It gets late early out here.

Jan-24-2017