The Observer

Some Have It

April 18, 2012

By LAURA CHILDS Margaret Lamb/Writing to the Right-Hand Margin Prize Runner-Up (Fiction) A flashlight sends...

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Home

April 18, 2012

By GINA CILIBERTO Margaret Lamb/Writing to the Right-Hand Margin Prize Co-Winner (Nonfiction) My home is small and rectangular. It comprises a k...

Sour Like Lime

April 18, 2012

By CHRISTY POTTROFF Margaret Lamb/Writing to the Right-Hand Margin Prize Co-Winner (Nonfiction) ...

The Coat

April 18, 2012

By LAURA SMITH TERRY Margaret Lamb/Writing to the Right-Hand Margin Prize Runner-Up (Nonfiction) 1. You won’t let me take my puffy winter coat to the thrift store.  What once was white is now dingy and speckled, with the gray condensing to form a black ring around the cuffs of the sleeves.  A soiled line runs over b...

Love

April 18, 2012

By SARA JANSSON Academy of American Poets Prize Runner-Up In order to fall in love, you must tear yourself open And let everything fall to the ground, And allow another to sift through it. And you sigh and say, “This. This is me.” They will either delight in being elbow-deep in your life— Your problems, your f...

Coexist: A Holy Sonnet

April 18, 2012

By SARA JANSSON Academy of American Poets Prize Runner-Up I only considered myself blessed By you, unchaste. I stopped believing in God the day you fucked a born-again Christian. (Haven’t they deemed that the ultimate sin?) For every looping fish that says “Jesus” on the bumper of a car, All I see are You t...

American Nightmare

April 18, 2012

By JOHN HAROLD Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner I got highway dreams Stuck in Catholic traffic Streams of sun scream To a merciful dusk Warm ribbons of iron Tie a beautiful knot Which road do we take? I’m asking the dust Muscle and bone And leather and steel In the name of the father Lies the grave of the son Run, little Mary Away from this place ...

One From the Diner

April 18, 2012

By JOHN HAROLD Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner The diner is only open when it rains. You need holes in your jacket and at least a three day beard to be seated at the counter. You sit down next to a man with glitter in his hat and no laces on his shoes and he tells you he owns the place. The air conditioner ...

The Sweetest Fig

April 18, 2012

By CRISTINA J. BAPTISTA Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner “‘The worst of sins is not to fall in love,’ said God, with the soft voice of a tango-singer.” José Eduardo Agualusa, The Book of Chameleons   In Portugal, they call this season a figment of the imagination. It treads subtly, the dance o...

Lover, Heal Thyself

April 18, 2012

By CRISTINA J. BAPTISTA Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner I. I am putting away the dinner plate for one, reaching into the too-high cabinet from the 1920s (this building is older than my grandmother, but she’s dead—both grandmothers are—so the comparison may make little or no difference, but there it is)...

That Silver Maple

March 28, 2012

By STEPHEN DEFERRARI Contributing Writer Published: March 28, 2012   The husband stormed out of the house, axe in hand, his wife crying behind him. “Don’t do this!” she screamed, “Stop!” He walked to the silver maple which stood in their yard. It was majestic, swaying in the gentle summer breeze. The husband walked into the shade of the tree. He brought the head of the axe out ...

This Is Just a Picture

March 28, 2012

By Brian Mangan Contributing Writer Published: March 28, 2012   Between blue shirts, white cuffs, gray bars, he takes our hands, our faces, our names. “…all of which feed into this control center housed in a secret location.”   We’re mostly new, but we all know the blue floors, white walls,...