by Vondavious Breaux Bound by blood and shackles, Abandoned by hope, the fear of unknowing. My physique stings from the engraved lashes. I have been deprived and brought to a land unfamiliar. It seems Shango cries alongside me; His spirit dances on the coast, thundering. Each boom resonates, a drum. His ballad calls out to […]
by Yaye A. Ba Vole, vole, respisre et profite du bon air Tes couleurs jouissantes touchent mon coeur, Tes aillles semblent qu’elle ressamble tous l’univers, De la perfection! Je vois, vert, jaune, rouge, et rose Rose; la couleur de mon ame. Quel arc en ciel! Qui m’ emporte au ciel Ciel de l’eternite. Papillion, vole
by Chrystal Coon Watch the azure skydrops kiss the sleeping earthchild. Her auburn lips aglow with rainbows. Her eyelashes swept with gold. The sea floor has become her prison, her home. Cursed by our destiny to stay confined until we one day meet. Guarded by a group of seven, but not for her protection. Condemned
by Abigail Giroir Third Place: *The David Middleton Poetry Prize* I walk through her fields—new earth, untouched—her legs heavy stalks of sunflowers, golden buds extending, pressing their faces to light. Scarlet-blossomed poppies field her belly, quivering, fragile life filling her up and over— opiate balloon. Nightshade, black and glistening, pearls along arteries—purple infection. Thought like
by Corey Sonier Second Place: *The David Middleton Poetry Prize* I no longer see myself in the crinkles of your nose or the creases on your palms, for I am no longer there— as if I ever was. Did you leave your love on the windowsill, or in forgotten shoes by the door? Only left
by Krystal Dean First Place: *The David Middleton Poetry Prize* She’s been your friend since the first time she turned around to ask for a pen and you couldn’t decide what color to give her first red for her cheeks or green for her eyes so you gave her the whole box and later told
by Allison Curth It was the summer between my sixth and seventh grade years a little over halfway through our family road trip out West. I had insisted on making a stop at Mesa Verde to see the ruins of the cliff-dwelling Anasazi. We stayed in a lodge on the grounds of the National Park
by Mark Robichaux The fire extinguishers did not provide a sense of security when compared to the potential of a missile canister exploding. All around, my reload team, platoon sergeants, first sergeants, sergeant majors, and even a few colonels and lieutenant colonels held their breath as our forklift driver lowered the live PATRIOT missile canister
by Justin Brunet In eighth grade, I went to the spot where my friend Aaron sat. He was working on his art project about his family boat, The Old Frenchmen. I wasn’t surprised. He had pride for his family’s pastime, especially their trawling company, C and P Distributing. He would tell me stories about his
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by Rosalyn Stilling Morning light filtered into the room, diffused by lace curtains, and scattered into soft floral patterns across the cream quilt. I opened my eyes and wiped the grit from them, sandy and heavy from a long night’s sleep. I stretched my little limbs across the soft, queen-sized bed, practically a swimming pool
