Poetry Select Winner
I know this place between rough walls
of toppling bricks burnished by time,
where puddling tears, shining like dew
flow through deserted alleys telling of
our lives, lived here in the laughter
of all poor working girls, wealthy in hopes,
earned through pennies for piecework.
Stitchers and buttonholers, rippers and
hemmers giggling of flirtations with
longshoremen and fools in the streets.
I was one of the many from distant homes,
our mended aches sewn in bleached-clean
cotton by our deft hands, turning fabric to
clothes while our voices lifted in joyful song
carried tenderly in our hearts’ memory and
gay flourishes spoke for our sadness and sighs.
I know this place where mirth was our supper,
where love was our safe shelter, and belief was
suspended by our piecework poverty.
by Susie Howard
Online winner
Drawn in
by the soft edges,
the half light
of sleep or dream,
I’m looking through
the window
of a hotel
I visited
thirty years ago.
On one side,
the city of Funchal
at dawn—
lights turning off
as if
letting go
one at a time.
On the other,
the landscape
of Madeira
with suspended clouds—
and a hidden road
winding down
the mountain.
It’s 5 AM.
Time to talk
about what has been
ignored:
not the wanting
and striving,
but what to do
with the remaining days.
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