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The Robert Watson Literary Prize Story WAR RUGS

The Dogfaced girl sits with her red-furred muzzle pressed against the window of the van. The sidewalks of this neighborhood are empty, and the houses are brick, built in the image of their owners’ skulls—flat and clenched. If she holds still, she can hear all the TVs, spilling their caustic wash of anger and bubbling jingles.

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The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem SERTRALINE

Emily Nason

Object permanence: something my dog doesn’t think
I possess. She sits on the ball when she no longer wants

to participate. I wish to one day hold that kind of boldness.
Near us, a heron puffs his chest, wades knee-deep into

CROCUSES

David Roderick

For Stuart Dischell

After nearly hacking them down

while mowing my back lawn,

“A no-frills magazine, plain and dignified”

—Robert Watson

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NEW WORK IN NEW CHINA

Michael X. Wang

Young Huli has pushed back the remnants of the Communist Party to Inner Mongolia. His tanks and yellow-shirted infantry have crushed the guerrillas that controlled the provinces below the Yangtze River and the remaining People’s Liberation Army along the Yellow River. He has declared himself emperor.

The Amon Liner Poetry Award ON SEEING A BEE DRINK HIS NECTAR

Wesley Sexton

Here I sit almost 25 years old,
never knowing how a bee drinks
its nectar til today, having followed one
from geranium petal to geranium petal…