Each year, for Thanksgiving, the family
Rations the ashes of another member
For offspring to keep in small plastic bags,
The rest are shaken into the water.
My grandfather was blown
To the middle of the lake –
Swallowed by babies of bass he taught me to catch.
My grandmother washed away with the tide –
Sifted to the sea floor where quahogs bury themselves.
She taught me to squat in the cold ocean,
Digging my fingers into the sand, feeling for shells.
Her fingerprints were scraped away by this,
But her identity lives in the small,
Yellow flower thrown to the lapping waves.
Distance is hard to cover.
Five hours of blurry, dead trees
Makes my neck sore,
I try to watch them all.
She used to wait for me
At the other end,
Arms stretched wide to fit my torso,
Smile like siren songs.
But now, there is no small hand to squeeze
When my loved ones float to sea –
Just my brother’s calloused fingers.
Steven Salisbury
Distinguished Voices in Literature Poetry Prize Winner
This dynamic poem skillfully moves between memory and the present scene. Literal details ground the memories and create a complex emotional experience. The specificity of details in a line like “My grandmother washed away with the tide— / Sifted to the sea floor where quahogs bury themselves” demonstrates the careful balance the poet strikes between language and emotion. The tactile detail that ends this poem works particularly well.
–Christine Kitano, Contest Judge, author of Sky Country and Birds of Paradise
Steven Salisbury is majoring in Professional Writing with a minor in Cinema. He draws from personal experience and his passion for musical lyricism to write poetry. A focus on making the intangible tactile shapes his image-driven style.