Next story: West Valley Nuclear Demonstration Project - Old Problems and New Challenges
Poetry: Just Buffalo's 5th Annual Member's Writing Contest Winners
judges’ prizeLost in SpaceWhen we were boys we fought like dogs, our palms pressing the glass door between us until it shattered, slicing flesh. Even now my wrist is marked by a raised pattern of old stitches, a warning in Braille I can no longer read.
In second grade, you sat in the back of the bus, bouncing with every pothole, singing out lines from that old TV show about a family with a robot, lost in space. “Danger, Will Robinson.” Danger.
In your private corner of the basement you read Popular Electronics and fixed old radios, the vacuum tubes glowing like cigarettes in the dim light,
but you refused to read their stupid books about Dick and Jane and they bussed you even further to a school for children who did not fit, the ones some of us called “retards.”
The seedlings we planted that summer are full-grown pines, but we moved away, and for years you’ve said nothing to me beyond an awkward “hello.” I do not know when the seizures began, but I have seen you drop to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut.
At 48, you lost your job pushing dust across the floor of an antique shop, and at 51 you slept in a jail cell for months after you threatened to drive your rusting van through the vestibule of a church, an echo of glass shattering again.
When I think of you now I remember that day at the lake when you were young. You slipped on the dock and scraped your shins raw, and there you were, swimming trunks clinging to wet legs, your thin chest bare in the hot sun and a galvanized pipe in your hand, beating the wooden planks with every bit of your strength, blow after blow, as if you were a blacksmith hammering, trying to reshape the world into a place where you might belong. —Stephen Paskey |
audience prizeDuskTonight the city harbor is still And there is no me and you.
Time stretches out from sun to sun Air stretches out from breath to breath The lanterns: half honey, half bees, Are yellows flooding the night. Neither you nor day will come.
Your memory is a body of stone Your skin is a landscape of distance And to have once held you Is to understand the concern of land In search of a missing bridge.
I would have the moon arch over us And darkness flow under you I would have a rose break its chains And the birds captive in silence I would have the voiceless hours speak
for me. When I think of you Light shifts and drifts apart Dying wherever forever mourns. This isn’t death, just the blackness of always.
Tonight I write for a moment of dark limits Beneath an artless sky without name. —Bryan P. Roland |
Issue Navigation> Issue Index > v12n7 (Week of Thursday, February 14) > Lit City > Poetry: Just Buffalo's 5th Annual Member's Writing Contest Winners This Week's Issue • Artvoice Daily • Artvoice TV • Events Calendar • Classifieds |