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*Winner* The Milton Kessler Memorial Prize for Poetry

Malaria Lexi Rudnitsky In Guatemala I remembered the dead. Friends no longer friends insisted they had survived. My mother smiled from her hospital bed. Those were light-skinned dreams, where all my pasts were sanguine: the wine did not stain, the driver swerved in time, we all understood the reasons I came here. This is a different decadence. Mosquitoes gather by puddles on the dirt floor. Rain warps the splintered board I sleep on. Outside: explosions or thunder, murder or disease. A doorless knocking into night.

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