Winner, Jean Pedrick Chapbook Prize, selected by Shanta Lee Gander
The Shake-Up
then there’s the final nightmare of your origin
story. this place is substitution, the house
containing multitudes, everyone you descend
from, now gathered to initiate you into your own
secret heaven. whether you return to earth
or not, the corpse is yours. do what thou wilt
with whatever’s left, I mean… some days I swear
I catch the planet on autocorrect, fine-tuning its tilt.
remember when the east coast quake
hit six summers ago? where I was, in the copy
shop, all of us strangers present could only fix
eyes with each other and shut up. the crowd
of customers ignored phones and business
altogether stopped while we listened to seismic
shudders sound from everywhere around us,
not knowing what the fuck. I thought a tractor
trailer truck must have gone by fast enough
to buzzsaw bedrock with its metal mass. way
off, but just like that—suddenly, something
enormous and you hope someone looks back.
Would I Change All I Know for Unknowing
east where you’re never going back. houses
on the hollow. drinking enough to kill
yourself. teenage bullshit. wanting to kiss
your best friend. twilight of the tire iron.
dad yelling you’re not sick, are you? deer down
the trailway at season’s end-of-slaughter.
in piles. unreal as your fever feels. path off
of that same road, where mom broke her
arm one winter. fell on february
ice. didn’t realize for days after –
said that it hardly felt like anything
at first. lamplight from our neighbor’s front porch;
windows spectral the woods’ leafless maples.
in memory, this all happens more than once.
*
in memory, this all happens more than once:
windows spectral the woods’ leafless maples,
the lamplight fits from our neighbor’s front porch.
they said they hardly heard anything
through the ice. didn’t realize for days after.
gone one winter, well into february.
that same road where mom had broken into her
unreal. pile-up of fever dreams. no path out
from that season’s end. the slaughter
sound of dad yelling. I’m not sick deep down
I think, lit in unironic love for my best friend. he tires
of me. our teenage bullshit. he wants to kiss
girls down at the hollow. I’ll drink to kill
off east coast as point of no return. that’s home.
*
in memory, this all happens more than once: east, where you’re never going back. houses.
windows. spectral, the woods’ leafless maples on the hollow. drinking enough to kill
the lamplight fits from our neighbor’s front porch. yourself. teenage bullshit. wanting to kiss
(they said they hardly heard anything) your best friend. twilight of the tire iron
through the ice. didn’t realize for days after. dad yelling you’re not sick, are you? deer down.
gone one winter, well into february, the trailway at season’s end-of-slaughter.
that same road where mom had broken into pieces. real as your fever feels. path off
of its unreal pile-up of fever dreams. no path. the same road where mom broke her-
self out from that season’s end. winter like an army. slaughter. the february
sound of dad yelling, I’m not sick. deep down, ice. didn’t realize – for days after
I think, lit in unironic love for my best friend. he tires. says that it hardly felt like anything
with me. our teenage bullshit. he wanted to kiss first. lamplight from the neighbor’s front porch;
girls down at the hollow. I’ll drink to kill windows, spectral the woods’ leafless maples,
off east coast as point of no return. that’s home. in memory, this all happens more than once.
Daniel Barnum
Daniel Barnum grew up in southern New England and now lives in Philadelphia. Their poems and essays appear in and are forthcoming from The Iowa Review, Salamander, Hunger Mountain, Bat City Review, Muzzle, and elsewhere. They serve as an editor for Poetry Online (poetry.onl). Their chapbook, names for animals, was the 2020 selection for the Robin Becker Prize series from Seven Kitchens Press. More at: danielbarnum.net