SHORTLISTED
ROLANDO ALBERTS
WHEN THE WIND KNOCKS
an ode to Oya and her daughter, Melissa
You carve a path of destruction
or transformation
From the sea
straight to our house
With all your fury
you whip your machete across the sky
Threaten our sheltered selves
and everything else we know
We bargain
“Iba Oya. If we must be changed
Leave us with our right hand so
we can rebuild our left”
With your last bit of mercy
you turn.
THE CHURCH TURNS THE GIRL TURNS THE CHURCH INSIDE OUT
or The Girl Becomes a Hurricane
Long titty church sisters and
broad back ushers
welcome her with half open arms
They find her a place in the pews
This is where she waits
Off the coast of the salvation she was promised
Off the coast of the home she desires
Wondering if she should turn around
Or find solace in some other place
Something inside the congregation is watchful
As if they know where she has been
As if they can see what she will become
She ponders her belonging until
Scripture trickles out of Pastor’s mouth
Something in the early chapters of Genesis
Tells her who and why she must be
Pastor pontificates how all sinners are created equal
But not all sin is the same
He divulges his disdain for
Man royals
And sodomites
Tomb wombs
And jelly back men
She knows who she is among this
And wonders if she might receive forgiveness
And something like holy ghost fire
Rises out the pit of her stomach
Drags her by her chest to the altar
Here she spins
And flings herself toward the pulpit
Long-necked uncles lay their crusted fingers
On her head, on her shoulders
Tell her how she must be more than
A roaming sketel with
Trash littered through her body
For a moment
She agrees
She inhales the destruction
They tell her she brought on herself
How could she have done this?
How could she not?
Pastor’s gaze meets hers in
The middle of deliverance
And she realizes
He will bury her in this
Hattaclaps.
Something else inside her
Spins in the other direction
She tears open the pulpit and
Places her hands against both columns
Rocks the sanctuary to each side
Pulls the roof down and covers
Serpents, sinners and saints alike
Before moving to another place
Where perhaps she will be forgiven
Where perhaps she will find a home
THE DAY AFTER
after Allison Morris
Tired of carrying faith on her shoulders
The old church finally rests
Her head on damp St. Elizabeth soil
She listens to tales and stories
Of old family homes and family names
Taken to the sea by the wind
The old church weeps at their passing
Knocks her wood against newly barren land
Sends a seismic call
To the saints in the east
And the saints feel disaster
And the saints come marching in
And the saints pour libation
And the saints lament surviving
And the saints tell their stories
And the saints bury their dead
And the saints pray
And the saints say
amen
