Hattie Lockett Awards

by Madison Bertenshaw

Anti-poetry is -ski,-czac, -woz*, girl
round words, dull, sharp, chaste, watery –
drain the eyes and I’s we leave behind, girl girl

Girl – lives of the Polish poets, little land-locked pearls
these, whom waste beauty (love) on shell-shocked arteries
ANTI-poetry is -ski,-czac, -woz, girl.

Strong words exist like his, Monsieur, Herr (no, Her)
she would be a lovely –ski, evolve to be a –Ska (Mrs. Naughty
Eyes) and maiden I’s we leave behind. Girl of girl

of girl born without her name. God make girl’s sins obscure
and X and Y and rhyme excommunicated to His lottery.
Anti pō'ĭ-trē is -ski,-czac, -woz, girl. Says Girl:

Moj Mother, mine, you are a silhouette of Mrs. Roosevelt, some girl
all jowls and curls, essence of dark circles and pure snobbery
drain the eyes and I’s we leave behind, girl girl

girl, girl, Girl of Unattainable Poetry. Your womanly wars, you are a girl
a Queen in every right a white, crystalline magic battery
(Anti) poetry is -ski,-czac, -woz, my significant girl –
Drain the eyes and I’s we leave behind, girl girl, Girl.”

Polish Pronunciation Guide:
*We always say “skee,” “zjack,” “wuuhzj”




by Katherine LaRue

Once I was the farmer’s wife.

Everyday, everywhere
was a harvest. The pulling
of small animals

(blue lolling tongues,
eyes likes your mother’s
polished glasses, their antique
opulence of telephone poles)

from the larger
swollen nurse
dumb cave of mucus,
world of milk,

herbivore and teeth.

The animals fall
out of each other
slick splash of red and indigo
water on hay
and your boots.

There were rotating
blades to consider.
Their rust tickling the air,
their sound
of something tearing,

the fur of a magnet
in your brain,
a tender hoof cleft.

Your repairs must
exhibit the delicacy
of fitting a wasp’s wing
with a cast.

Now, I offer you this
encyclopedia. You may
look to my skin,
that flickering humbug.

I covered every inch
in careful rat-ah-tats,
inks pulled from stones
or boiled violets.

(Spiral after spiral,
the torso of a sailor,
the moon in all phases
The showy lips
of a poppy,
and its beady eyes.)

Purple petals circle
my nipples—the color
of royalty, of spoiled
canned goods
and your dead calf.

Out of this cart, behind
this transient curtain,
I show
only my wrists.

My warm skin, like fruit
or leather, like any wife’s,
deep in dish water catching
grease spat from cast iron.
My sewing kit
on the coffee table
next to its bag of tobacco,
a key warm from your thigh.
But would you notice
the needles are all out,
their tips stained blue.

Can you see now
the uselessness
of your calluses?
If you put up your feet
your hands will soften.
The synopsis is long
and its work permanence.

Images of places
I’ve never been
of things I wished I owned.

I will be folded,
one day,
by the sun.

I will rest,
a drying hide,
and the wheat will continue
to grow into your eyes.




By Housten Owen Donham

Helpless and dipped in green and orange light you
Were carried from the car by someone old enough
To take care of you and ended up dreaming in eider
and goose down.  A bird call.

The bath running in the next room is not unlike a
Fall or a spring.  There's a desert now
Being filtered through your eyes.

It's shocking, how close your body is to your self.

The scent of your sweat, sweet and heavy,
Keeps even in the breeze.

The floors are wooden, of course. Most carpet is like
Concentrated dusty gray pubic hair.


By Housten Owen Donham

These brown and red sleeping bags should just

Fold over you like before.  Then, after we've

All eaten our soy, you can tell ghost stories to

Each other. No violence or naughty language.

At the horse track at night my uncle and his friend

Saw a conquistador in the sky, pale white and gray,

And he was riding a black horse.  Well, my uncle

Was color blind.  The wind combed the flames.

With flashlights, with moccasins. Enter each tent,

Lustily castrating. And down by the slick river

Words are not spoken among them. They're
All wood and dirt there, all moon and stars and trees.

Arizona Board of Regents