Editor’s Choice Award
a woman made entirely of air
these days I worry about percentages
who knows how much fear
is enough to inflict irreversible
damage who knows
if merely by passing through someone’s life
I end up taking away the only
air that person can breathe
that poem you wrote
is only half of something unsaid
hold it next to the mirror
so that it looks whole
do you look whole? how
can you tell? breathe
on its surface for now
be the wind soon
to become gale storm hurricane
you’ve been holding this mirror
to the poem’s lips far too long