1 . Blueberry Picking by Katherine Eulensen^
The small, purple-blue globes dangled and dripped Down twiggy vines between the thin Green leaves with waxy glow. The old grey cat with matted fur Rolled below the bent branches, his belly arched as he Swatted at the teasing bird perched on a fruit-heavy limb. You filled your bowl more quickly than I, I guess because I had wanted to languish Between the bushes in the muggy grass, gold and pink from the last Floating rays of sun that sneaked past the black walnut tree, To dissolve back into the earth with the fallen berries And leaves and stray cat hairs. Instead I put my shoes back on, the old blue sandals I had now worn For two summers and one early spring, drew them Over the calluses of secluded paths, solitary midnight runs. I thought about staying, in the drifting dust, the wasted sunset. If I slept here, in this blossoming dusk, Would I wake up? But it never mattered because my body left And followed you up three porch steps where a dozen termites Fluttered overhead and the bright bronze moon splashed beams On the blank grass and wilting dahlias. I was used to the breeze, but you gave Me your sweatshirt anyways, and I knew we were both wondering If we could have had other sorts of lives.
2 . Untitled by Anthony DeLorenzo^
3 . 200 Miles to Truth or Consequences by Oscar Oswald^
Santa Fe moves in circles chasing, biting, mutilating its tail that it’s barely ever looked at. And it topples with tamalés dripping grease through soft cornhusks and rolls in the dust and goatheads with Hispanic children in soft adobe homes. And in the Spring there is a new humidity that clumps the dust and everything is still and stuck to the ground but just wait until Fall when the excitement swells in this gal and this gal tears her clothes off and jumps naked on horses on dusty Rodeo clowns; stars dan- cing in dirt roads and beating and trembling breaks herself in two. Ssssssplit!!! in two. 2. Oh Santa Fe! sweaty cracked palm against my skin!: turn me brown, make me warm; cover me in scented shadows! - that autumn pollen of dust of dry bugs, needles, fire, red chíle, and sagebushes. (remember me under the bridges by the plaza next to the grasses that stretch to tickle the tourist’s feet) make me a painter make me an artist let me soak in your arroyos and crack in the sun of the afternoon. New Mexican homeland of dried weather and the Zia Sun. “Mother Santa Fe, make me a painter” 3. an artist’s gallery that was abuelita’s home that was mama’s home, then Marissa’s when she got married. adobe child now they all live out by the paws by the malls of my city 4. But there will always be Zozobra, and the gunshots at ice cream vendors; the preachers from the pink church calling us sinners as we leave our autumn effigy that burns and lights up the Blood of Christ mountains and all the dead veteran’s tombstones all white like shelled gum sticking upright for the sprinklers and the artists, the artists, the artists, the artists a trip to the summer house would be lovely in picturesque Santa Fe. 5. And I am an American tourist from Little Rock, Arkansas and I am an American artist on claimed lands, watching the monks at the church where I graduated, sitting with the tourists, their bright white hat bills in the sunlight of the old, adobe plaza, watching the artists in the gazebo, and the Indians lost under the shadow of the Palace of the Governors; Bill Richardson I hope you read this: There are artists living in condos built for artists where the theater used to be; Neil Young, un poeta sudoeste, escribieron que Santa Fe está a sólo 90 millas de un pueblo que no saben su nombre en “Albuquerque.” En un sentido diferente Él es todavía cierto Neil Young, a southwestern poet, wrote that Santa Fe is just 90 miles away from a town that wouldn’t know his name in “Albuquerque.” In a different sense he’s still true. Gurian Poetry Award: Honorable Mention
4 . In the Absence of Mouths by Elizabeth Stauder^
Last night I dreamt I was a cup sitting on your table. I filled up with thick milk The sides sloshed over. Last night I sat and sat the white bubbles in me rising. Feet passed up and down the halls like insects buzzing till the milk in me grew sour. Last night I dreamt I was a seashell silver-green and unbreakable abalone hip-bones rose up in an alluring display. The waves tossed about, moaning and sighing, waking and sleeping, Men walked over me, sneakered, almost crushing my bones. Last night I dreamt I was a fish, turning and arching jellied cartridge covered in slick flesh. The silver in my scales threw light everywhere every inch of the empty blue ocean. Last night I woke up in the downed sheets, naked and splayed, only the fan’s low hum abed with me. So I wonder: What happens to the swollen peach in the absence of mouths or fingers? Gurian Poetry Award: Honorable Mention
5 . Pueblo by Emma Mincks^
6 . Summer Snow by Dan Hess^
7 . Day Two by Julie Depner^
On your desk, blue lava lamp yolks Glub and buoy silently in their formaldehyde. And we, part globular and lazy, Imagine them failed chickens, future cupcakes, Round and morbid in our post-sex stupor From blurring lines and benefits. You’re stronger than I thought, And I am worried for our roles in this: The way we spoon like eggbeaters, Angled, laced and metallic; The way our runny white insides Have solidified with heat. Gurian Poetry Award: Honorable Mention
8 . homage to chips by Rod Aminian^
these chips are big chips they need bowls to lie around in. they don’t fit into little dixie cups. these chips are free chips. they don’t like to be left in the bag. these chips have never been in salsa. they are dipped where they want to be dipped. they taste however they want to taste. these chips are fatty chips. these chips are magic chips. i have known them to enter into a digestive tract and spin like a top!
9 . Habitat by Chris Sullins^
10 . Indignação by Leslie Cabrera^
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