Poetry

2026 Broad Ripple Review Prize Winner in Poetry My grief counselor pounded the arms of his desk chair so hard he replaced them twice in two months. He tells me, You can’t save anyone, son, & God, how I want to believe. Dear Heavenly Father, didst thou sculpt us in the dark? What does one call one half of a duet? Of what use is a lone ski, barreling down black diamonds? I can rip this paddle so hard I tear the river & still, I’ll drift in circles. It’s autumn in Los Angeles &

I wore only new shoes that summer. He asked to walk with me. My heels sank into mud. We took the woodsy path to the cliffside bar where the older teenagers kissed. The gossips told my mother this. I didn't catch his name. I hardly looked at his face. He was traveling up and down the boot to festivals of the saints. A pellegrino. In my mother's childhood, they walked barefoot for their penance, prayed at the church. He wore grown men's shoes and zippered pants. He walked