Surrealist Prize Finalists

Winner

Nokomis Groves by Meg Kelleher

Who would I be if fear were not
my twin? Still me, still dreaming

of wasted oranges? Sore & sour
as sweet long untouched,

but for the branch and its pinched
calculations—each limb here cups

an untapped sun. Daughter
of red tides, of coasts painted

in pain, I was hatched
to be cross-hatched, a stitch

drawn in my skin. & from it
the line is juddering

to the peach-cheeked squatter
who shows me life

is but a license for haunting.
She mutters, You’re the child

you lost. A mystery, a hide
to tear into with my teeth. I trap

what’s left in the heat
of my palm: a dimpled skin

in my fish-shape that turns
over & will not heed my calls.

So all my silver will spill on sand,
unclaimed. Who would take me

when the light gives itself away?