Winner
2025 Arthur Axlerod Memorial Award
Migration
​​​
Home is Nuevo León, where the monarchs bask in the Southern sun.
Gunfire smoked them out
​
East, across the
Rio Grande; towards the dawn of
promise.
But the Western dream, I fear, was a mirage; dangled
on a
​
precipice.
​
​
I fear I will lose my baby to the North.
The glacial wind split her lips-
​
​
where the sun once kissed
​
She cracks and
​
bleeds.
APRIL TAMEZ is
a 25 year old
English major who was born and raised
in McAllen, TX.
She draws inspiration
from her life
as a first-generation Mexican daughter
to forge creative pieces
of poetry and fiction
that can be appreciated
by others who share
her experiences.
In her spare time,
she likes to crochet,
read, and play
video games.
Metamorphosis
​
I was born
with an ache in
my stomach.
It squirms and
snarls at the sight
of lush green paper.
Paper, I can’t touch.
I eat and
eat
the scraps- still I’m
so hungry,
hungry for the things I
can’t have.
​
​
I bide my time
in my polyester cocoon.
The pain and
gnawing satiates
my hunger.
I eat and
devour
reanimated by petulance, until
I am consumed.
​
​
I miss the
drive, the need
to live. Hunger is now
a phantom of youth.
I fly and
soar
above my grief
directionless yet
straight into
the mouth of a
swooping
hawk.