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Like a great gazelle
had been shot to the ground,
I imagine the shape of his body
like this belongs anywhere but here.
His legs are turned inward, his muscles
Contorted into a circle on my bed,
I tell him I think it’s best to be apart,
The way his long thin legs twist like a
channel of pain in his veins, I know
I’ll remember how it feels to be violated
by my own words.
Let’s go back to sunny slept-through
mornings, no one’s home, no one’s
watching. There were soft arches,
soft sheets. When a man cries, the earth tilts
slightly forward.
I can’t forget cold floors at midnight,
sweating through my shirt. Nothing adds
up but everything comes
back around.
Smoking gun clenched in my hands,
the ease in firing is too much of a rush
His limbs looked more organic when they
possessed free will. Now, raw and mangled,
his big eyes are tightly shut, his mouth left open,
poached, and everything is expertly wound the
wrong way.
Fear is a beautiful thing to
cling to before it reeks like dirty vowels.
Mispronounced un faithful ness,
sticks to me like lint and prickers. Up to my neck
In wooly washes of gray
I wish my teeth fell out every time lied.
The woods have become cold,
The animals have held their breath for a
moment. Turn the heat on.
In August, I’m the devil.
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