By Sophia DeMoe

the night before your father found the weed in the bottom dresser,
we went down to the lake to smoke. sweat stuck
to your upper lip as you danced, joint in hand
before passing it to me.
you carried an expression I won’t put into words,
i’m just too much of a sucker for authenticity;
in towns like these it’s hard to find.
identical houses stretch like sky, and every church dawns the same
welcome sign.
others call it suburban balance, taking comfort in the pristine
but they don’t know how you held me in the dark,
tracing my collarbone as we talked.
to think that two girls could unbalance it all.

First Place: Sophia DeMoe
Marin School of the Arts