"In a Tree with a Dandelion Boy" by: Sophia Summerlin -- Handler's Choice

In the place where my shaking body meets Ginsburg’s voice. Hunched over meets plain narrator. Where acid trip after lives bring girls closer to lost homes. Mostly destroyed homes.

Where streams of consciousness go unvoiced and often forgotten. Where cynic dreamers dream of cynic doers And then wish they were no so cynical after all.

Where hippie momma just becomes mom in a log cabin Where Dad gets angrier, but he loves the same.

Where black coffee becomes second cup of black coffee, And red wine becomes third glass of red wine, Making girls cry out, “You’re so nice!”

Where boys sit under trees in blue button up shirts, Reading Moby Dick. Reading Patti Smith. Reading other boys.

Where distance and love struggle to exist.

Where friends pat shoulders and squeeze hands to replace hugs. Contact is often too intimate a game.

Where genuity is falsified by phony idolizers. Where right is right when it is really wrong. We know nothing.

Where favorite poets hug you, Because they are still alive and still can. Their denim jacket sleeves rubbing against your back. Leaning over to say, “I don’t show my teeth in pictures.” Where you lean over to say, “I don’t either.”

Where Grandmother judges your second tattoo. Where hair knots like nervous throats.

Dense text collects in notebooks of former loves. Where former loves are current loves. Where we are afraid to love the right ones, Because the wrong ones do not require the risk.

Where friends are cradled in trees together at night Listening to ocean songs.

Dandelion Boy asks for Plain Girl’s thoughts. She says, “I’m thinking of the branches.” He asks, “What of them?” She says, “They are beautiful.”

Plain Girl asks for Dandelion Boy’s thoughts. He says, “The leaves.” She asks, “What of them?” He says, “They are beautiful.”

Where nights end at when o’clock, Or after bell songs. Where books and secrets sleep in the same bed of Plain Girl. Plain Girl was not just thinking of branches.