4th Place

It’s my turn

I step into a room, a dull white

I watch my brother on that bed

one channel than another

wires drape from his arm

I know white, we

know white, but not this shade

the white of our porch in the night

illuminating the grass it stood from

we run, chasing little sparkles

our hands becoming cages

for those tiny bugs of glow

the white of innocent and ignorance

From that bed

he turns his head looking up at me

I catch a glimpse of that white

Late at night, when the flower
wilts the most,
you lay awake thinking.
No, dreaming,
about a world where everyone sees you
for who you truly are…a Woman.

In the lens of memories.
In Diaspora Palestine,
A photograph reveals-
An uncle with figs
and grapes in his gentle hands.
Amidst an orchard 53 years old.
Blooming with love-

Watered by tears,
of family labor,
in orchard cultivation-
under the sun's warm glow.
It was a haven, a cherished land.

But beyond the lens,
In life’s twisted fate.

By the force of a bomb.
In a land oppressed by those
who believe it’s their right,

My
brown eyes
glow in wonder
at this porcelain beauty.
I run
stubby fingers across
her tiny frame.
Admiring the
porcelain beauty
before my
big eyes.
And I smile
ear to ear.
Her swirling curls
dancing like stars on a quiet night.
Landing softly.
Each strand
wondrously
made her more beautiful.
Frazzled
dark coils never seem to take light.
Foolishly,
they’re no stranger to me.
No freckle on her powdered face.
No frivolous lines

Author requested to not publish her poem.

Talking with him is an open road with many different journeys
Talking with you is like a conversation with a shadowy figure that is scared to come out into the light

He looks at me as this sweet girl
You look at me as you would a project
But what you both fail to realize is that I am neither
I am not as kind and sweet as you think,
Matter of fact, I am just like you

Beneath this exterior, I am demon too
I am no project
I will never be poked and prodded
To be honest, I can hide just like you
become a mystery too

“Gary, where are the keys?”, said Kathy, my mom.

She was in a rush to find those keys, just to get rid of her only daughter. I deserved it though, considering her only daughter was an embarrassment to her.

“Honey, would you slow down.” said Gary, my dad.

My dad could care less what was occurring with my upcoming absence. He was always too busy reviewing game footage for his high school football team, which I’m pretty sure he loved more than me.

“Stevie are you ready to leave?” Mom asked.

The house across from me is vacant. My neighbors and I take turns mowing the lawn, but we can do nothing about the hole in the roof. Through the windows, we can see that the water is destroying the inside of the house. I find it ironic that we are all drinking bottled water now because the city water is bad, and yet even the rain here is causing irreparable harm. What should be a life-giving symbol, water, is poisoning our bodies and destroying the houses. We have replaced all the plumbing in our house, the water heater, the boiler, the faucets, because the corrosion ate it all away.

Flowers, we all are
Some of us grow taller than others
And it isn’t fair, but nothing can be done
Because life is a test that pushes us beyond
But some of us fail because others succeed
Because some people cheat their way around
And slither into the ranks of greatness as they drag everyone down to failure
No matter how hard we try, sometimes it’s not enough
Even though we’ve exhausted ourselves to the brink
And rest is not an option because there’s so much work for us to do
So much for us to accomplish

Introduction by Prof. Maggie Rutkowski, Barrett Committee: