Winner, 2016 Randall Jarrell Poetry Competition It was only afterward we found our figures false, learned we had climbed ghost ladders to accidental height. We’d followed numbers into night to scan for matter, discovered you, distant almost-planet— but in the end you let too many others in. As if in the underworld after a war, they haunt your silent wandering corridors. With your moon you orbit nothing, center not in matter but space, links invisible, ice infusing both, covering your bodies in their passage, warmer regions dark to our mechanical sight. Faces inward, blind, tides locked with your smaller twin in synchronous rotation, dancing, turning together, leaning out, each one crooking with the other, point of connection feeding the pull apart as Charon sings through the absence of air: Come, pay your passage. Kiss the round and feel your eyes darken over, feel the cold thin disc rest on each pupil, the worlds distilled into the blackness at the bottom of a well

SARAH HUENER is a writer and musician. She received her BA from UNC-Chapel Hill and her MFA from Boston University, after which she traveled in Croatia and Israel as a Robert Pinsky Global Fellow. Sarah’s recent work can or will be found in New Delta Review, The Greensboro Review, Crab Creek Review, Salamander, and in the North Carolina volume of The Southern Poetry Anthology (Texas Review Press, 2015). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was a finalist for the 2014 Pocataligo Poetry Contest. Sarah reviews poetry for the North Carolina Literary Review.