Lisa Moritz , recipient of the 2008 Green Wyrick Creative Writing Scholarship for Poetry:

 

An excerpt from Moritz's winning work:

STILL RUNNING (A sestina)

Sitting now at the café near the tracks, I remember

how it would begin suddenly, a single step

onto the gravel driveway of the Paulen house,

and without a word we would begin to run,

racing home from church.  I was fast.  A train

of yellow skirt with eyelet ruffle, and my father

sprinting in his green leisure suit and striped tie, a father

transfromed, an emerald Camaro remembering

how to make all its parts hum, pumping unstrained

his arms and legs like an engine.  In this race, we step

beyond ourselves and tunnel through the tracks that run

from youth to age and back again.  There will be no housing

this momentum within us.  We approach the banker's house

at the final corner before reaching home, and my father

slows his pace, braking.  He lets me run

past, and as I take the lead, he remembers

how it is to be young, knowing the need to step

outside of who you are now, to ride the train

and follow the tracks before you; their silver lines training

your eyes to find the station ahead, which sits like an old house,

its paint peeling, its roof sagging, its steps

uneven and splintered.  Its frame leans like your grandfather

did when he settled back into his vinyl recliner, remembering

dreams that slowed or stopped, abandoned cars that no longer run.

Beyond this café window, the sidewalk runs

its path beyond the line of my vision.  I hear a passing train

call out its lonsome departure, and I remember

walking train tracks when I was nine, blocks from my house

with my friend, Kim, following the Santa Fe and saying Our Fathers

as we navigated the section of track over the creek, stepping

faster, hearing the rush of water below, quickening our steps

across square wooden ties, our feet like mallets on a marimba, running

a tune that could carry us across and then back again to our fathers

or our mothers, who waited at home with supper ready, who trained

us to listen for the Angelus bells as a sign to return to our houses,

a sign the day was done.  Coming back, we pick up stones — something to remember.

Over stones and wooden ties, the trains keep moving.  I keep listening.  I remember

the strong line of my father's back, the low idle of his voice, his boot stepping

across the threshold.  He is housed in my heart, like cargo, and I am still running.

 

Last Updated August 26, 2009