only so many
(for KE)

you can only tell a story so many times before you wear it out. Our fathers
were friends before we were friends & our mothers long before them. We
listen closer now. Only so much I can remember about him – swigging tall
boys of Black Label, sunfish spinning from lines like shocked Christmas, gun
fights with twigs & the big rock we fortified with more twigs. I try not to
forget where I came from – the Granny Smith orchards of ordinary pickers,
the afternoon sawdust under front porches. You still there? Hiding in there?
A clicking pen, you know, only has so many clicks before the spring loses
tension or an essential plastic component chips a tooth. Don't click my
favorite pen. Wear it out & replace it with another favorite pen.

justin sirois

Judges’ Comments:

In this voice I find a rare vitality and sureness. In trusting this voice I have no problems trusting my instinct. It has a few clever lines and a wax-polished close but this poem is not about cleverness or closure, what appeals to me is the intensity and the way it is delivered, measured yet unflinching in conviction. Could it be tauter? Who cares, I feel drawn in and I like the smooth lapses into informality and the way it finds its way back into the depth of feelings. In essence this poem moved me more than any other. (SN)

I want to echo what my partner said and also to say that despite the fact I initially found this poem WITHOUT white space hard to enter, it has a lasting compression and identification for me. It reminds me of WS Merwin, specifically "The Name of the Air" or poems of that nature from the book "The Pupil" and I think this poem will strengthen and not lose its vitality over time. The first line is telling, I don't think this poem will wear itself out. There is life and spirit (which is another word for breath) in these few lines. I would study Merwin and also know that it's the sort of poem that reminds me of a Chekhov play in that nothing much happens, yet everything happens. The narrator makes us want to know more about both the narrator and the missing friend. Like a stone thrown into a lake, the initial plunge is followed by so many essential ripples that you are drawn back into watching the narrator to see where the next stone will take us. (LB)