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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.

 

 

Hand Touching Water

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

 

 

 

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