Honorable Mention, Poetry Contest
Do not steal my fire and ice, make null
my trial, void it with another name
than pain. The cut of a blade opening to bright red
is revelation, not in later epiphany,
but present sense, the now of living, now of
lava coursing down my throat to scorch my
inside self. I know on my tongue the later coal
will make me glow, the later scar will disappear
as skin stretches old. But that should not erase
the instigation, surprise of not healings,
solitude in grocery stores, noise of
one’s own breathing. Joy is not inserting
catheters in bathrooms I’m too tired
to clean, and I am not immortal yet.
A native of the South, Elizabeth Cranford teaches composition and literature at a junior college in Atlanta. She received her BA in humanities from BYU and MA in English literature in a little town in southern Georgia where football is King. She is passionate about the gospel, eating good food without guilt, finding humor in most situations, and convincing young women that being thirty and single is not the end of the world. Besides, single adult dances provide some mighty interesting characters to write about.
