First Place: Kristina Morgan, Scottsdale Community College, "Lost"
Lost
1.
The snow cone machine dominates the kitchen,
allowing in only one family member at a time.
Bob bought it for the kids. I ask
my sister, Emily, why she keeps it. She says
they want to remember snow cones with their father,
how the syrup dyed their tongues and painted their smile
bright blue.
There is a magnet of Bob on the refrigerator,
his shaved head on his thick neck and strong shoulders.
A guitar is strapped to his chest. He grins
like he might begin to sing. James has his father’s smile,
Suzanne, his golden brown eyes.
2.
They are suddenly wakened by the pounding on the door,
a noise much louder than the traffic driving past their apartment.
Emily knows it is the police. She knows this just as she knows
there is no milk in the house.
I wonder if my sister is high on crank when she opens the door.
The officer asks if she is Emily Brown-Smith, the length of her name
steady like an alarm. Her reply is slow, is yes, is seconds long.
“Do you know a Robert J. Smith?” She closes her eyes
in a pause much longer than a blink. The officer informs her
that Bob was found dead in his home, that he had stabbed himself
repeatedly as the noose circled his neck, that he died slowly.
I wonder if he was tweaking. There was no note.
He was alone. The details matter like a monogram
on the pocket of a shirt for sale at a secondhand store.
3.
The children fold and unfold that morning in their minds.
James says, “We loved him wrong.” The phone heavy in my hand,
“You loved him best.” I want to reach through the phone
trace his cheek down to his jaw, grab his hand and hold it. Still.
The chest of drawers they share is skimpy. It does not allow them
to tuck the weight of their father beside the bulky sweaters.
They wear him to Thanksgiving dinner. It is obvious. They do not lift
their chins as the stare into their plates. It has only been a week.
Emily talks for all of us, answering her own questions
“Do you want stuffing? Of course you do. More water? Yes.”
She struggles to make it all good.
Their dad gave them piggyback rides up a long stretch of hill.
He placed them in the curve of his handlebars and peddled
them around the block. Emily got rid of the snow cone machine.
4.
Come summer, the kids will become Aqua Man and Mermaid.
Emily will burn in the sun on the lounge, and I will think of Bob
briefly before joining James and Suzanne in the water.
They no longer think of their dad as dead. They say he’s missing.
I allow them this. When they tell me, “I love my daddy,” I respond,
“And he loves you.” They accept this like they do blankets
when they are cold. But the love doesn’t wear with use.
Author Biography: Kristina Morgan received an MFA in creative writing, poetry in 2007 from Arizona State University. Writing is breath for her. It's language passing from her pen sometimes a sentence or line an hour. Her poetry has been published in various journals and includes two nominations of fiction and non-fiction for the Pushcart Prize from Delmarva Review. Her book-length memoir Mind Without a Home: A Memoir of Schizophrenia was published by Hazelden in 2013. She lives in Scottsdale, AZ with her two black cats, Grams and Annie, named for her grandmother and mother.
Second Place: Jacqueline Gentry, Mesa Community College, "Corruption"
Corruption
Honey is so sweet.
Tangy and tacky and smooth and saccharine—
Gooey silk stuck to the back of your teeth.
Tangy and tacky and smooth and saccharine—
Gooey silk stuck to the back of your teeth.
A fleeting luxury to the meager.
An evening treat for the privileged.
An evening treat for the privileged.
But I was never one to Indulge.
But then, there are those,
who gaze upon its luxurious sheen
and its rich gleam blinds their eyes.
who gaze upon its luxurious sheen
and its rich gleam blinds their eyes.
They arrive in the dead of night, under full moons
with sharp knifes poised.
Pale light shining off their chipped edges
to take what is not theirs.
with sharp knifes poised.
Pale light shining off their chipped edges
to take what is not theirs.
They harass and steal and laugh and flaunt,
the spoils of a war their enemy never knew they fought.
The gold dribbles down and sinks into the gaps
left wide between their splayed fingers.
the spoils of a war their enemy never knew they fought.
The gold dribbles down and sinks into the gaps
left wide between their splayed fingers.
But— What if I?
Took that knife, hot from the forge.
And sliced into the comb, peeled back the wax.
Nicked and carved and gouged until there was a mangled mess
and even took that one step more?
And sliced into the comb, peeled back the wax.
Nicked and carved and gouged until there was a mangled mess
and even took that one step more?
Because while I, who thinks of themselves so self-righteous.
Who swears that I would close my eyes upon presentation
of a knife so fresh, not a fingerprint on it.
Laid to me in a golden case
to commemorate the affair.
Who swears that I would close my eyes upon presentation
of a knife so fresh, not a fingerprint on it.
Laid to me in a golden case
to commemorate the affair.
I might just reach out
with taut, strained fingers and
ignore the handle of a knife too sharp.
To dig all the way in, scrape my nails through the amber.
Until they were worn down, chipped and bled
Gold.
with taut, strained fingers and
ignore the handle of a knife too sharp.
To dig all the way in, scrape my nails through the amber.
Until they were worn down, chipped and bled
Gold.
Because even I,
who swears by an unstained life,
knows that the chucks I would etch out would be
Tangy and Tacky, Saccharine and—
Oh So Sweet
who swears by an unstained life,
knows that the chucks I would etch out would be
Tangy and Tacky, Saccharine and—
Oh So Sweet
Author Biography: A former college dropout who has returned to the world of higher education in these trying times.
Third place: Romeo Barrientos, Scottsdale Community College, "An Open Letter to Family"
An Open Letter to Family
Through the streets paved by the tears we shed.
Here I see a place where no one belongs
A ghetto of good and bad.
No other place to call home, yet I don't feel welcome.
Killing each other because they know no other way
Yet, you kept us away from the damage
Out of the pain of these color wars
Until I found what I was meant to be
Meanwhile you ran from it all, with an arrow through each leg
Overcoming everything with no reaction and a flame in you
Making just enough, but not enough
For you, I do more than I can every second
Once I know you can feel okay
Running, hoping I could outrun the life that followed me.
Everything could be fixed if I just ran from it all.
Violent cries like a caged bird without a key
Envying the easy life of kids in suburbs
Running from the color of my skin, wishing I was born again.
Yet, I see now the purity of brown.
The shattering embrace of the past that created me.
Here I stand over the cracked road, walking.
I hate how much it all hurts, yet I walk with a flame in my pocket.
No more running, I live now to be better than the streets made of tears.
Go live free now, I am okay. I promise.
Author Biography: I was raised in New York City for a large part of my life until I moved to Arizona in 2019 to pursue Computer Science. Growing up in New York allowed me to talk on a multitude of experiences and I am forever grateful for that. Nowadays I spend my time coding, hiking, and playing with my puppy Astro.
Charlie Domagalski, Honorable Mention, Chandler-Gilbert Community College