Listen to Emily Pickering read her poem:
After this is over, where
do we go. If only I could say
I’m done with the world. I walk alone
in an on-time crowd
in an on-time crowd
of others walking alone. I imagine
a landscape with no edges.
a landscape with no edges.
The sea only a soft wet curve. The way
afternoon light splits its way
afternoon light splits its way
through the glass door, spills over the
nights full of smoke and soap
nights full of smoke and soap
and labor of the heart. The hard spines
of history. These years create
of history. These years create
epidemics for us all. My lawn is still green
and the little stars blink above
and the little stars blink above
while the cars hustle past the rows
of bright neon tents under the bridge,
of bright neon tents under the bridge,
and my heart, my heart is broken.
The silver spikes on my windowsill
The silver spikes on my windowsill
exist to pierce the birds. It’s the being
alone I worry about most.
alone I worry about most.
Is this too obvious. Some days it rains
and others the air wrings itself
and others the air wrings itself
and rises for another go. There is dust
in my hair and the repeated thought
in my hair and the repeated thought
of a flood. My consensus, that I will live
to be much older than these cities.
to be much older than these cities.
I will rehearse loss until I feel it coming.
Until it’s real. It is four in the morning.
Until it’s real. It is four in the morning.
God, I want so badly to stick the landing.
The thought of the coast of California
The thought of the coast of California
carved through with a knife, the throat
of the Bay bared to all. The crowd
of the Bay bared to all. The crowd
of dancing people promising to each other.
Spin, they say. And so we spin.
Spin, they say. And so we spin.
Read on . . .
More about the winners of the Ninth Annual High School Writing Contest
More about the High School Writing Contest
