In poetry, our winner is Logan Klutse, for his poems “Bronx Operating Room” and “Learning of Conspiracy Theories that ‘the Portal to Hell Resides Beneath the Denver Airport.’” Of the poems, poetry judge Sandra Cisneros says, “This poet’s work is unpretentious, intelligent, and intriguing. It mines the personal while confronting contemporary issues. Most refreshing is…
In poetry, our winner is Logan Klutse, for his poems “Bronx Operating Room” and “Learning of Conspiracy Theories that ‘the Portal to Hell Resides Beneath the Denver Airport.’” Of the poems, poetry judge Sandra Cisneros says, “This poet’s work is unpretentious, intelligent, and intriguing. It mines the personal while confronting contemporary issues. Most refreshing is…
After seven nights of silence, he woke to seven drawings of a ram, pinned along his walls. Spit six seeds in a tin cup and trailed his hands along the white hall singing about something to do with morning. My father sat his easel in the musical and was a farmer, but wanted to be…
What have you done?Opened this box of sound,warped like sand beneath water,remember that? The wavesof perception moving youaway from me. We grow farther apart,but we are equal in our ignoranceof how. No change there. Like celestialbodies distancing—like the animalsin autumn. How? This knowledge,how will you pin it down?How hard I look to trace the first…
After the protest at dusk, two policemen on horsebackclosing the park approached me and Vita and offered us rides home. Sheepish but game,we grabbed hold of their leather and galloped across field and hillto the edge. Gassed and smiling, we waved goodbye. Jim was waitingat the restaurant. I wanted to tell him there’s no heat…
My mother was once held at knifepointfor a day. The man positionedthe blade at the blue places of her pulse,as if tracing the ground for water,divining as it’s known. Or maybeI’m thinking of the pointed devicethat searches for sapphire,bright veins beneath the earth.Throughout my childhood, I imaginedhis hand. And my mother’s bodybecame the site of…
PUNISH THE SHOOTER, NOT THE GUN is a hard line to take seriously, as seen on the bumper of an old Dodge hearse spray-painted black and gold, passing on the right. If I honk, will he think friend or foe? A question best left rhetorical, so I keep my hands at ten and two and…
Suddenly everyone’s friendly, 2020. We’re working in the front yard, Boyd and I, and our neighbor who’s never spoken to us calls out, “Good job!” And now we’re talking. She’s seventy-seven. “Early spring,” she says, and then, “My grandkids can’t come up to visit, because.” We nod. We’re nodders. We wave. We’re wavers. For years,…
I carry the East with me, I carry it to the West. Wrap it in layers in a small suitcase tagged for the West, In America there is a romance that calls for leaving Known people & places to head for the West. I open a suitcase & stare at shoes that leaked sand; Oh,…
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