Please join me in congratulating Unbound Content’s 2014 Pushcart Prize nominations, listed here with the nominated poems in their entirety:

Woman at the Auction House
By Angela Carter

“I ain’t givin’ nothin’ away, darlin’,” she said as she pressed her
stub of red lipstick to her lips. She turned her head to the side,
her shoulders still straight. “Don’t look at me so sad, cause ain’t
nothin’ easy ‘bout me, shugga. My skin may be sold, but this here
the real ‘pensive stuff ain’t got no dolla signs on it.”

I did not believe her at the time, her eyes looked easily swayed.

Every time the door opened we could hear the auction men, their
voices boxing to be heard over one another’s in that land of musk
and lust for things that may or may not work where we weren’t
allowed, no child no woman nobody no corner warmer. I never
had hope that I would grow a voice enough to enter those doors.
Or any others. Even then I knew that although our purposes were
different, our jobs were to wait for others to want us.

“Some men can’t stop hunting, even afta they own the fur an’
antlers. Darlin’, you’ll know it one day. And ya might be standin’
somewhere like this tellin’ some little girl the same thing and she
givin’ you that same look you givin’ me. You’ll see. These corners
can give a woman less bruises and more luv than that out there
can. A ledge, winda, bed, drivin’ a car, and on the floor—
we’ve all got our corners shugga. Even you.”

–from Memory Chose a Woman’s Body

Prelude to Soil
By Euprates Arnaut Moss

Drunk off the waters of Lethe
I remember the harangues set against
A fugue which was transmitted
Through an ondes Martenot

I, having not known of the letter,
Planted ‘neath the soil—your womb
In utero, my seed
A blackened child
Her new framed lullaby
Delivered to St. Peter
A weed of doubt stuck deep in my mind

–from Early Harvest

Cinnamon Man
By Donnelle McGee

In my gut
below my
heart is where I hear granddad telling me to put on Leadbelly
‘cause the blues are now creaking

……………………………………………………………………………………….swaying

under our people’s
soles.

And I wonder if granddad’s ghost still wakes late
to grasp some solace from Cash and King.

The baritone voice of Johnny and the buzz

…………………………………………………………………………flying off

BB’s guitar
looping the record player, needle riding vinyl
as I peek into the black living room
to see this beautiful cinnamon man singing the blues,
rubbing them bruises………………………………………………………..away.

–from Naked