Winner

“Stranger Fruits Grow Here” by Wasima Khan

The ceiling in their old house
had a crack shaped like a horse.
My father said it only galloped
when someone lied.
By the time I was ten,
the horse was running.

My mother boiled silence
in a silver pot every night.
It smelled like burnt lavender
and the word maybe.

She stirred it with a wooden spoon
that once belonged to her mother,
who disappeared
in the middle of—

They kept a room in the house
for feelings that never learned English.
Once, I opened the door.

Inside:
a coat made of glass,
a calendar with no days,
a mirror that only showed me as a bird.

They handed me sweaters
and cut fruit in strange shapes.
Once, my father carved a pear
into the face of a sleeping child.
I didn’t know what to do with it,
so I buried it in the yard.

Years later, a tree grew,
bore fruit shaped like ears.
When the wind blew,
they whispered all the things
my parents never said.

I picked one.
Held it to my own ear.
It wept.

– Wasima Khan