Jean Pedrick Chapbook Prize Co-Winner, selected by Krysten Hill
Human Geography
We are stretched across borders. Parched,
we gape for each other. What words
we remember are lost in the static of the air.
What we have forgotten is weather. I am
cracked and weighted. We search for song,
for water to rise and drown but are born
down by my weight. We hope you recover
your voice but, droughted, you don’t even know
clouds though they hang above us. We can only
point into their blank bellies, like cavern tapping
into the smooth black- black above the blue, mouths
open. I know they hold no relief. Yet somehow
yesterday we did remember wind. Devils and tumbles
hugged us and spun us so, the black above and the wordless
words within are only as important as the skin
we hold softly to our bones.
Dirt
I am not a gardener, grubber of plants,
shifter of soil. My nails clean,
I stopped kneeling years before I reached
this age. If you ask, I can tell a food seed
from a pretty one. Clarify that TOMATO is fruit.
Tell you: when the red hibiscus sits crushed in your hand,
it smells of blood. The hammerhead worm
tosses its head wetly when cut with a spade. A crooked
row means death for someone. Shit produces the best foundation.
A tree can live around the rot at its base, but dies
in the beauty of mistletoe. Poisoned grass returns as weeds,
mutates to flowers. Blue morning glories will cover your garden.
Beautiful, but chokes your roses.
All this I learned on my knees, from my father,
my teacher, beer in one hand, the other browner in dirt:
That the dog will follow and proof your work. That, here,
the frost will come back and kill your grapes,
no matter what. That squirrels stockpile,
even when there is no need.
I want a large woman with long hands
to fall in love with me
I will sit between her legs
pressing my back to her thighs
as she uses her fingers like a fine
comb to work the kinks
out of my hair
she will sssssssss the whole time
as my head is slowly tugged
back back
until I can look into her eyes
eyes begging me
to act right just this once
C. Prudence Arceneaux, a native Texan, is a poet who has taught at Austin Community College, in Austin, TX, since 1998. She earned a BA in English/ Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico, but even before finishing the degree realized “there’s no place like home.” Upon her return to Texas, she began work on an MFA in Creative Writing, which she received from the University- formerly- known- as- Southwest- Texas- State in 1998. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Limestone, New Texas, Clark Street Review, Hazmat Review and Inkwell.