2026
POETRY OPEN
First Prize
$1,000 Award
SOUTHERN AIR,
THE SMELL OF IT
by Viki Radden
(Best viewed in landscape mode)
Just across the border, in northern Louisiana,
The air smelled like every other bit of air in
Every other state below the Mason-Dixon line.
It wasn’t the smell of the air that bothered the
Children’s mother, as she clung to the steering wheel.
It was the smell of fear, inside the air. The air was
Timid and edgy, as if it knew something about itself
That others did not.
The kids’ mother tilted her head while her knotted
Stomach clenched.
There’s something wrong here, she told the children.
The farther south they drove, the unknown became
More unknown. Mother pulled into a gas station,
But since there were no black people there, she
Stayed silent and drove on. When the family, a
Stylish mother, a 14 year-old girl and a 16 year-old boy,
Arrived at a restaurant, mother saw a black man in an
Almost too tall chef’s hat. Silently, she motioned him to
Come close to her. “What’s going on down here?” she asked.
“The air . . . it’s so thick and smelly, I could cover it with butter
And eat it,” she told him. “But I couldn’t keep it down.” The
Chef nodded. Whispering in the mother’s ear, he explained.
We had our first interracial marriage today.
“The first in the state. People are on edge.”
Mother asked for the food, even the charbroiled steak,
To be put in boxes for takeout. Back in the car, with the air
Finally having explained itself, mother turned the car and
Instead of continuing south, she headed north, for the border.
At the motel that night, mother double-locked the door
And moved a heavy chair under the doorknob. The first
Story on the local evening news was about
The newlyweds and their history-making adventure.
The black bride, tremulous in her white lace gown.
The groom, not smiling for the camera.
Merely trouble-faced, worrying about
How far from the Louisiana border
They would have to travel
To enjoy their honeymoon.
______________________________
Viki Radden is a poet and essayist living in Eureka, California. Her work explores history, family, memory, social justice, and the lives of overlooked individuals. She holds graduate degrees from San Francisco State University and has taught in a variety of educational settings. Her poems have appeared in literary journals and are informed by a lifelong interest in literature, clothing, culture, and American history.
2026
POETRY OPEN
First Prize
$1,000 Award
SOUTHERN AIR,
THE SMELL OF IT
by Viki Radden
Just across the border, in northern Louisiana,
The air smelled like every other bit of air in
Every other state below the Mason-Dixon line.
It wasn’t the smell of the air that bothered the
Children’s mother, as she clung to the steering wheel.
It was the smell of fear, inside the air. The air was
Timid and edgy, as if it knew something about itself
That others did not.
The kids’ mother tilted her head while her knotted
Stomach clenched.
There’s something wrong here, she told the children.
The farther south they drove, the unknown became
More unknown. Mother pulled into a gas station,
But since there were no black people there, she
Stayed silent and drove on. When the family, a
Stylish mother, a 14 year-old girl and a 16 year-old boy,
Arrived at a restaurant, mother saw a black man in an
Almost too tall chef’s hat. Silently, she motioned him to
Come close to her. “What’s going on down here?” she asked.
“The air . . . it’s so thick and smelly, I could cover it with butter
And eat it,” she told him. “But I couldn’t keep it down.” The
Chef nodded. Whispering in the mother’s ear, he explained.
We had our first interracial marriage today.
“The first in the state. People are on edge.”
Mother asked for the food, even the charbroiled steak,
To be put in boxes for takeout. Back in the car, with the air
Finally having explained itself, mother turned the car and
Instead of continuing south, she headed north, for the border.
At the motel that night, mother double-locked the door
And moved a heavy chair under the doorknob. The first
Story on the local evening news was about
The newlyweds and their history-making adventure.
The black bride, tremulous in her white lace gown.
The groom, not smiling for the camera.
Merely trouble-faced, worrying about
How far from the Louisiana border
They would have to travel
To enjoy their honeymoon.
______________________________
Viki Radden is a poet and essayist living in Eureka, California. Her work explores history, family, memory, social justice, and the lives of overlooked individuals. She holds graduate degrees from San Francisco State University and has taught in a variety of educational settings. Her poems have appeared in literary journals and are informed by a lifelong interest in literature, clothing, culture, and American history.