Permission

First Prize Winner - Sarah Marks

Judge's Citation on “Permission":

I was immediately drawn to the poem for its details, musicality, and leaps. The poem travels through time and space as the speaker carries us along the road; and as we weave through the poem, I'm continually surprised by where the poem goes and how the poem arrives there. For example, the poem begins with a description of banana leaves carpeting the path, and it initially feels like a poem about childhood, but as the poem progresses, I realize that the poem is addressing larger concerns about place, boundaries, and safety. The speaker did not and does not have permission to be on this abandoned road. I also appreciate the poem's imagery: "you may travel this road with only minor worry / and shelter under a thick banana vine / when the morning monsoon opens daily / and the back tire loses its last breath of air." The poem’s tone is evocative and adds to this indirection; that is, the conversational voice and tonal fluctuations create tension. And, finally, I appreciate the poem's final turn, where the poem feels even more intimate and lyrical. 

Permission

Inspired by the style of Ross Gay

This road was once well travelled, but now
banana leaves carpet it into a path
soft as sponge
and dead leaf litter and the scent of
wet stray cats
permeates everything.

The bike was trusty
albeit rusty
but rode it I still did
what a trooper it was
tired handlebars, seat sucking up water
and spitting it back out between the knobs of rubber, cracks
in the tires and in the faint pavement deep beneath
visible still where the banana leaves won't quite
cover up everything the past had in mind
here on Hurricane Road, what a name! and
sometimes it does indeed storm,
when the wind
flings off the banana leaves, and raindrops ricochet,
the sky looks like a giant ball of yarn tossed to and fro
by a kitten, wretched and wet,
maybe the kind you used to lift up by the scruff
of its neck when you
were just a little thing yourself
in a storm like this.
rivulets of runoff carve little canyons
into the seat-of-your-pants-staining clay on the sloped gutter sides
of this path that I am not allowed to access
not back when it was a banana farm,
not now, in its up-and-coming remodel to glory,
and not ever
since it's land
land that's not mine to own,
even if it's not anybody's else's
to own, either,
at least that's how I'd think of it
and I ride on it every day, not once but twice
the Rod and Gun club to my left, POW POW!
Men shooting!
locked gates
perpendicular to the banana leaf carpet,
cows awaiting slaughter in the field
(not from the Rod and Gun club men)
At least I don't think -- maybe that's how Hanakua Farm makes money
by letting butchering and pleasure mix
which it never should
For blood must be spilled by those who don't want to
and ideally, only those who need to
a tortured livestock farmer is a good livestock farmer
cows looking at me with blank
eyes in chest-deep Guinea Grass patches, that are only
not too prickly to bear
if you're a cow -- and they wait, as little
white birds claim their backs as a perch
mooing at the bicyclist clanking by
and in my head I recite the words gifted
to a friend, of a friend, to me, long ago,
whilst laughing --
Mike Furukawa told me it was okay,
in reference, of course, to trespassing,
this back road shortcut, and Mike may now be dead,
of course
but as long as you say it came to you
in a dream
with eyes that say they really believe it
the ghost of Mike will not come back to haunt you
and you may travel this road with only minor worry
and shelter under a thick banana vine
when the morning monsoon opens daily
and the back tire loses its last break of air