Page 14 - SOUTHERN VOICES_2020

Gache
Bryonie Mandal
Glistening dewdrops make the morning sun rise faster. I hear the gentle water, tip tap, as my morning alarm; It gushes out like a ravaging waterfall
Until the handle is turned, causing the pressure to be
reduced.
I look out my blinds, seeing the plants.
They are looking for their essential morning coffee. I see in their leaves the starved look that only one
person can replace.
Her eyes glazed, her body moving robotically through
each step,
Her face flushed by warm sun rays, she is radiating, Skin lustrous from the specks of sweat.
She bustles around as on all other mornings
From blueberries, strawberries, and watermelons covering the earth like quilt squares,
To ungrown mangos, lemons and figs and ripe pears. She leaves no one behind,
Watering, watering, watering
They flourish, not only the fruit-bearing plants
but okra, bitter gourd, bottle gourd, and the red
amaranth.
Zinnias, marigolds, and hibiscus strike the air waiting
for her attention.
Her love and care for these foreign creatures
Awes me.
Any withered-away soul she touches becomes life. Plants grow in love and get tangled up around her.
She herself is interlaced in the greens of the earth.
Mason
Third Place—Drawing
James Harden
Stitches, Scissors,
and Seams
Skylar Nichols
Honorable Mention—Poetry Competition
Grandma’s eyes have aged
So that she sometimes misses a stitch
And the seam goes jagged.
She has become like a vocalist
Whose throat fights against the melody.
With a curse under her breath,
She yanks the polyester from the machine
And gets into good lighting;
Hands shaking and gentle, she pulls out thin threads With seam ripper and tweezers.
After she starts again,
She puts everything into those threads,
Back bent with foot pressed on pedal
And needle dancing lightning quick
Almost sewing her fingers into fabric.
My grandma sews to make ends meet,
Late nights filling order after order,
Hands cramping from stitching every stone to glittering
dresses
Her scissors cutting sharp lines for tuxes and suits, Laboring over clothes she’ll never wear.
Ink
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