By Elina Kumra

I still see you propped up against
the pillows
above the bed’s tousled mapping,
wielding a cheap acoustic guitar;
its chords peeling off the fretboard
like a membrane suggestive of longing,
the word each culture
thinks it owns before all others,
having spilled enough blood to think it true.

Borne away by the past,
your melody finds its sea legs,
throwing the last year overboard
and all those debts that jammed its cargo hold
to bursting point.

This is how the bright side
always earns its spurs:
by paying off hope’s pet names
to fatten the months ahead.

All the same, life burns through this optimism
in a heartbeat
and finds our hit songs wanting.

Time is whippet-quick, rummage-worthy,
all rear-view.

First Place: Elina Kumra
Summit Tahoma