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Winner

2025 Arthur Axlerod Memorial Award

 

 

Migration

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Home is Nuevo León, where the monarchs bask in the Southern sun.

Gunfire smoked them      out

 

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East, across the

 

Rio Grande; towards the dawn of

 

                promise.

 

 

But the Western dream, I fear, was a mirage; dangled

                   

                                                                                 on a

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                                                                                        precipice.

 

 

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I fear I will lose my baby to the North.

 

                                                   The glacial wind split     her     lips-

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                                                           where the sun once                            kissed

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                                                                    She    cracks     and

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                                                                                          bleeds.

 

Image.jpeg

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.

 

 

Lenguas en Peligro

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​

There was a time

when your words

wrapped around me

tightly, tucking me in.

​

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I clung to the edge

of your story- the one about

La Llorona

remember?

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You’d say she roamed in the dead of

night, searching for girls

moaning-

‘Ay… mis hijos’

You’d insist it was her

outside

wailing and scratching the

door, down the hall.

​

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Is it morbid to miss

those nights?

 

​

Twenty years older,

I still recount

your awful fables. I miss

listening to you- listening

to the language I

once believed was the language

of the world.

​

​

The language I

lost

figure by figure, I can feel it

ebbing away.

​

​

Please,

won’t you tell me

a story? The one about

the insatiable caterpillar

who eats and

eats

before I forget

how to talk to you

mami?

 

NAME Magazine UNIVERSITY AT BUFFALO 2025 

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