First Place

Sara Parrell

Madison, WI

 

Sara Parrell was a recent winner in the Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine’s 2007 poetry contest and her work has appeared in previous issues of the Wisconsin Academy Review, the Lake Wingra Morning anthology, and other journals.  Her most recent publication, Nocturne, is a collaboration with photographer and musician Thomas Ferrella.  Regionally, Sara is invited to lead workshops on writing and the healing arts. As a pediatric nurse she has practiced and taught at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and most recently works with children in the public schools.  She lives with her husband Grayson Kampschroer in Madison.

 

E. Ethelbert Miller’s comments:

“Good poetry should move one beyond headlines and even history.  That’s what I found happening when I read “Psalms of New Orleans.”  Descriptive images embracing biblical citations, resulting in compassion, understanding and the transcendence over grief.”

 

 

Sara Parrell

From Psalms of New Orleans

 

 

Psalm 116: the sorrows of death compassed me

 

 

She remembers her lost child and presses it between

her brain’s satin folds, answers the curious

journalist- no matter how sad I sound it’s nothing                 

 

like it used to be. Calumet’s Shell station is back

in business, porta-potties overflow, Paris Avenue

slinks through heaped trash all the way to the ferry.

 

She can’t remember how many days rooftops appeared

as postage stamps from copters swung overhead,

too far away, everyone praying not to die too

 

soon. A Saints’ hat floats within reach, spinning,

a child’s toy in the psychedelic water. She mutters

first lines of lullabies and a one-note dirge that simply

 

comes to her and won’t leave, then hears

maul-swings and crow-bar pries, shovels scraping

fusty mud from her kitchen linoleum, drywall

 

thudding onto sub-floor, the scuff of hungry

cockroaches. At the curb an orange-hooded EPA crew

pokes and prods the house-high hill of all-that-was

 

searching for toxins tossed in the wrong place, finds

a few bottles and cans, claws them onto the flatbed.

Cups of salvation she thinks and scans the crumpled

 

photo his gloved hand offers her—grinning  

daughter, black lab licking her ear, behind them the 60’s

brick ranch flash-blurred, burnished, nearly dust.