2nd Place

Colter Poetry Prize Winner Sarah Williams

Introduction by Dr. Peter Kim, Barrett Committee:

"Sure there aren't any in the back?"

The man Mom asks is bald on his head and full of hair everywhere else. He does not look the type she would normally ask for assistance. But here, in Greenland Market, no one looks the type. He reaches for the garbanzo bean boxes and begins to unload them. His sweaty hands leave imprints on the can tops. Mom and I meet eyes; we both know the other is disgusted. Still we wait. Without looking up, he scratches his neck and speaks. "The truck comes in tomorrow."

Charlene couldn’t recall a specific day or time when she first recognized that she was never going to do anything memorable with her life. It was a realization that had crept up on her slowly over the years. Like the proverbial frog sitting in water that’s being slowly heated, she hadn’t noticed that the water was boiling until it was too late…until she was already cooked.

These are my hands.

They remind me of my youth. These protruding wrist bones remind me of the numerous front walkovers and back handsprings to which I’ve subjected my body. This ragged, faded scar on my wrist reminds me of summer camp, a time that was blissfully free from peer pressure, and divorcing parents. These callouses around my finger nails remain from a nervous habit that developed during the awkwardness of puberty. When I manicure my nails I remember the summer that I turned 13, and my mother first let me wear iridescent pink nail polish.

These are my hands.

I squeeze my husband’s hand,
wiping my eyes
and walking alongside
the smoldering wreckage.
We move as elusive as
whirling plumes of dust,
side-stepping the stone remains
of homes in the Port-au-Prince.
Avoiding the flames
that dance aloft the ashes
of tables, chairs, and
tinder sticks.
A plastic bag
skips down the road,
clinging onto a
shoe rising
walking away
from the rubble,
swaying like
a white flag
until it’s set loose,
floating into the
distant haze

The silhouette of trees swayed against the silver moon, the gentle breeze brushing down the hillside, along the cloudy river bed and through the pasture, blowing against the tall grass with crickets hopping—chirping—as Jim lounges on the porch—silent—bottle of moonshine in hand, painting the scene in his head before it’s all gone. The vast violet horizon sprawling across his hazel eyes.

When Cody returned home from the night-shift, his brother Hugh sat at the living-room table. Hugh’s hands shook violently underneath the cone of orange light spilling from the lamp, and between his thumb and index finger he cradled a wedding ring. He leaned his head forward, bathing the craggy contours of his face in auburn, and Cody could see his brown eyes. Cody sat at the other end of the table, and kicked off his boots.

The bathtub sits empty, full of cold water, and cold hearts and cold memories. The sun seeps in through the window, and refracts against the water, casting rainbows on the white tile floor. Taho knows it is supposed to be beautiful, but it is the ugliest thing he has ever seen. He cannot bear the sight of the tub, cold and lifeless. He blames the bathtub. He blames his hands. He blames the grains of sand. But mostly, he blames himself.
~

I walk into a bar and everyone ducks for cover
9/11 is the punchline here
Except
No one is laughing
Not me, not the bartender who won’t look me in the eyes, not the collection of sweaty bodies, too drunk to hold their heads up
Misunderstanding is the punchline here
Misunderstanding, miscommunication, misinterpretation
All these misses that we have allowed to seduce our hearts
Fear is the punchline here
Fear is the tool used to isolate, used to

“You’re 16, you don’t know the meaning of love,” she says to me.
I click my pen, tap my fingers, feel the itch in my skin. As if I can’t open up the pages of a dictionary and find
Love: