By Sophia DeMoe

bruised nectarines,
chipping china,
lace the color of sand.

it's not natural to care
for the broken things,
the creaking things, the ones

imperfectly whole,
but here you sit in front of me
without judgment.

this moment waits in silence
and we do not object. you’ve always
carried love within the quiet.

heat slicks your touch as
you hug me, removing daughter
from your vocabulary.

it’s a mechanical sort of grief
to be loved so
gently

Second Place: Sophia DeMoe
Marin School of the Arts