
The Consuelo Rivera Fuentes Prize for Poetry 2026: Winners
Joint First Prize:
Kate Kingston: Still Life: a Portrait
Sofia Vaisman: Geografías del olvido
Second Prize:
Ruth Roberts Owen: Inheritance
Third Prize:
Natalia Figueroa Gallardo: Décima de la gravedad y la gracia

Still Life: A Portrait
Kate Kingston
. . . doctors delayed treating miscarriages
. . . under the state’s strict abortion laws . . . ProPublica
What is the color of almost born?
—turquoise, teal, ultramarine—
In this painting, mother and fetus
are frozen in the brackish green of stillness.
The embryo’s heart is sacred, a crime
to remove it from the womb while beating.
The artist erases the mother’s face,
chooses aquamarine for the amniotic
fluid, the dark ocean of the pelvic floor.
What is the color of miscarriage?
—citron, cinnabar, crimson—
The artist chooses magenta for the crowning,
the visible tiny head exposed for three hours
to the cruel air of indecision, a risky passage,
this wait to slip into the hands of a doctor.
What is the color of sepsis?
—burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber—
The artists paints a line of veridian ants
in the upper left hand corner. Their small bodies
form a title; her quill-like brush writes Sepsis.
On her pallet she blends white, red, and blue
into the grey area. The artist paints
the mother’s hips, thighs, pelvis, a shade
of burnt umber diffused with titanium white.
Her charcoal pencil outlines the cervix
in shades of grey and more grey.
What is the color of a child’s first breath?
—transparent yellow, hazy blue, riptide orange—
There is no first breath in this painting,
no last push, only the gray area where bacteria
slips into the womb, unnoticed. The embryo
heart ceases in three hours, the mother’s heart
in three days. The artist etches more ants
streaming in the lower right-hand corner,
a signature. A calligraphy of fragile letters
floats over oils like an untethered umbilical cord.
The artist sets her brushes in a jar of turpentine.
The doctor peels off his disposable gloves.


Geografías del olvido
Sofia Vaisman
Con la vista fija en el perro
permanezco
ignorando el otoño,
su extremidad húmeda y leñosa
oculta por momentos
las faltas que comete mi memoria
o que retoca, a gusto
mientras barro las hojas con los pies
y solo encuentro
más hojas.
Nos hemos perdido de vista
el olfato canino
es un mito
la distancia entre dos países
se alarga con el tiempo,
territorios que se mueven imperceptibles
arropados de días, escándalos, mal clima
guerras donde no puedo nombrar a ningún
muerto
todos van armados.
Ya no siento rabia
no distingo si el perro me abandona
o yo lo dejé seguir.
Estar perdida requiere de práctica
habitar los escombros que resbalan
de mis ancestros.
Soy testigo muda
de otro genocidio,
todo lo que crece en esta pradera
será veneno.
Inheritance
Ruth Roberts Owen
Old cotton quilt
washed and washed into soft white softness
some facings worn to
feathery edges
but the tiny stitches are still intact
the pods of quilting
holding whispers of warmth like little ghosts
fractals of the original host
all shifting in the wind and sunlight.
I press my face into it
and inhale another mother’s story
warm breast milk
and the honey-sweet smell of newborn-baby shit
the iron tang
of menstrual blood that dries to the colour of ancient ink…
But then the star-splash of the faster, redder flow
more recent and
more deadly…
and the newly washed blanket
hangs heavy as grief
framed by a cold sky and fading grass
still holding its story
and the woman who told it
has left it
to me.


Décima de la gravedad y la gracia
Natalia Figueroa Gallardo
Cae mi ojo y mi peso
cae mi mano de la hoja
mientras afuera se arroja
la guerra sobre el hueso.
Cae el puente que atravieso
como espina a la garganta
cae la delgada manta
que cubrió lo que creí
pero algo dentro de mí
todavía se levanta