To celebrate, we’re sharing “January One,” a poem by our Dryden-Vreeland winner, Christopher Blackman. His prize-winning book, Three-Day Weekend, is forthcoming from Gunpowder Press. This poem was first published in Rust & Moth (Spring 2021) and is reprinted with the poet’s permission:
January One
Dream of Jeannie. Dream of Dion
and Bo Diddley. Of high and tights,
Hugo Boss, plimsolls and the VFW parking lot
where my mother roller skated as a girl.
At night I dream of Dayton—of oxidized bridges
harboring graffiti like regretful tattoos
in intimate places. Of fireworks over the river.
Of endless ranch houses with egg cream
vinyl siding and backyard basketball courts.
I dream a horde of Catholic boys named things
like Tom and Drew to occupy those courts,
then I funnel them all to Jesuit schools.
I dream I buy four ranch houses in Dayton
and they become a hotel. I dream I pass Go
and inherit two hundred dollars. This morning,
when I woke, I resolved to be more proactive,
so I left you to sleep. Last year’s newspapers
are flattened on the sidewalk by footprints,
stained by road salt: tell me, why is it I always
tell someone I love them for the first time
on a Sunday, and do I always mean it as an apology?
Today is the biggest Sunday if the week was a year
and I am still sorry. I believe this year will be different.
I take a walk while the world is hungover,
everyone stirring sauerkraut at their stoves. I tell myself
I feel better already and this time I believe it.