2026 Winners
The judges are pleased to announce, and include in this edition, the winning entries in the 2026 Porchlight Prize in Poetry: M.E. Gibson won first place with her "Appalachian Trilogy." Second place went to Jake Lawson for "Ornithology." Noel Poston won third for "Ordinary Moments." Submitters were asked to enter three related poems and offer a brief statement about the common feature.
Thank you to all those who participated in the inaugural contest which will return in the spring of 2027.
Following is a poem from each of the winners. Please subscribe to read the other six works from the winners.
M.E. Gibson
Ruby Offers her Granddaughter
a Drink of Spring Water
You can’t beat spring water
on a hot day. Better than from the well.
Clean and sweet. Till I was twelve
or thereabouts, nearly tall as you,
it used to be our only water.
Not enough to pipe in. Daddy
drilled the well first thing
when he got cash, went to town
to work. The well’s good water too,
compared to town water, but Daddy
always said it tasted galvanized.
I used to lay down my hoe and run up here,
mama calling behind me, where was I
going. I’d just pour a dipper
over my feet and arms and dry them
on the grass. She’d be calling, Ruby,
young’un, you going to take all day?
I’d take my time, just
to spite her. You ever do that?
The cold’s nice now, feels good
in the heat. But in winter I’d have to get
two buckets every morning. Thought my toes
would freeze to the ground. You wouldn’t want
to spill a drop. Them buckets bruised
my ankles, banged my shin bones. I was so
small for my age—none too strong.
We had a hard time to keep clean.
Jake Lawson
Understory
Suppose I hide
in early autumn’s lapping veins,
disappear in a mosaic
of rust-tones:
streaks of hot butterscotch wings,
golden old brown leather,
fox fur, red-tailed squirrel—
camouflage of Bachman’s Sparrow.
Somewhere, the bird fixes
to whistle its slow note,
which pulls a rapid-fire
of cadenced, soft,
foreign syllables.
If I wait long enough,
I’ll hear its call of resignation,
a farewell from hidden branches
and low growth.
Noel Poston
The One About Your Mother
That brutal winter on our backs
in the big room of the cabin,
we lived on lies and told old stories.
You will remember,
because I begged you
to tell me again. About
the time your mother
came home after a double
shift. Strode through the house
in her no-nonsense way,
screen door slamming at her back.
Kicked off those clunky
white shoes and peeled
the wrinkled uniform
away, unpinned the cap
and carefully laid it down
beneath the cabbage palm.
Her slip pooled limp
and helpless in the sand.
She plunged head-long into
the amber coils of the creek
behind your father’s shack.
You watched her move naked
in that snaking brackish stream.
You saw but couldn’t see,
deep water oily dark, her skin
a golden blur.
She knew the gator on the bank
could hear her stroking hard
against the current, smelled
her thick black hair releasing
all that pent up power
that had wound
around her skull for hours.
She had paced those tiled halls,
starched cap pinned too tight
against her head.
Clipboard clutched,
she delivered
clipped orders to the orderlies.
Just like she did at home,
to you, her patient boy.
You knew she didn’t
care. Cared less
if the gator came for her.
Cared even less if you saw him
slip silently upstream
and head her way.
Carefully you folded up
the uniform, aligned
the heels of her heavy
shoes. The palm laid
shaded stripes across your face.
You pretended not to watch
for her, pretended
you would wait.
She outlived your father.
She would outswim
the gator, reach the bank
across from you,
stand up and stare you down,
and turn away.