First Place:

Through the Stomach

By Lizzie Logemann

Memories of you are framed by curls of steam that peel off dashi stock and stretchy pulls of fresh mochi. They fizz when soda hits my tongue, bright and bubbly and stinging in my throat. 

You won’t have an appetite, my mother warned, but I’m on my fifth portion of zaru soba this week. The cool noodles were the only thing that would coax you to stop grumbling about the oppressive humidity during rainy season. 

I make up a plate for you, my love, and set it before your framed photo, hoping the heat isn’t too bad wherever you are.

Second Place:

Persephone

By M. K. Wessel

Pretty as a picture, they called her,

But none saw her tear at the frame—

She clawed down walls without falter,

She sharpened her teeth on his name

Sweeter than honey, they gossiped

But shrieked when she buzzed and stung—

For nobody thought to posit 

Her tail could be sharp as her tongue

Cute as a button, they named her

Forgetting buttons can pinch—

Paint is prey to the painter,

Miles span less than an inch

Lovely as roses, they rumored,

But lonely as a rosebud in winter—

For the moment Hades entombed her,

Her springtime frame of mind splintered.

Third Place:

No Kisses for Me

By Wendy Markel

 I know it was you, you sticky fingered thief; orange marmalade evidence on the glass, toast crumbs framing your milk-tooth mouth. A Raphael cherub - blonde curls and rosebud lips that your daddy said would shatter hearts. You never took his kisses; he gave them willingly. As he gave his generous heart to save another cherub’s daddy.

It’s mine that’s shattered now surveying the armchair still wearing his shape, the cracked and empty frame. I grab a cloth to wipe your chubby face and flailing fists..

‘Mummy, no.’

You wriggle away and plant your sugary lips on daddy’s stolen photograph.

Fourth Place:

A Moment on Pause

By Jonathan Tolstedt

I advance the videotape, frame by frame, looking for that one moment. 

It was 1998. The family’d gathered in Dad’s hospital room. Mom wanted to capture the moment, thinking she’d show it to him when he recovered.

Of course, he never did.

She’d avoided filming Dad, not wanting to remember those empty eyes, but he could be seen through the gaps between uncles and cousins. Mom panned the camera away when this happened, but, if I pause the playback at the right moment—

There! 

Over the curve of Aunt Velma’s ample hip—Dad, looking into the camera. 

Smiling.

“Hey, Dad.”