2010 Jeanne Lohmann Winners



Casey Fuller is a certified forklift driver. He works in a warehouse for "The State" and has lived in Olympia, Washington, for thirty years. That's right, people: THIRTY YEARS! His poems have appeared in Switched-On Gutenberg, A River and Sound Review and In Tahoma's Shadow. He has written books about being a receptionist, working at a fruit stand, and using a large machine in a mailroom. His chapbook, What's Being Sent, was funded by the City of Olympia's Here Today Art Grant in 2009. Casey is recently married to his amazing wife, Katrina, and, like all true Olympians, he is literally counting off the seconds until he moves to Portland. He is also very, very happy to be a winner of an award that honors Jeanne Lohmann.  

Trina Burkeís poems have appeared recently in Drunken Boat, Word /for Word, No Tell Motel, Prick of the Spindle, The Iron Horse Review, and Quarterly West. Her chapbook, Great America, is forthcoming in the fall of 2010 from Dancing Girl Press. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Montana and an MA in English from Western Washington University. She is currently employed as a publications and logistics specialist at the University of Washington and lives in Seattle.

Brian Desmond is an Assistant Professor of Theatre at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington. He has worked as an actor, director, and playwright at universities and professional theatres throughout the country. His poems have received numerous awards and have been published in Phoebe, Pom Squared, and In Tahomaís Shadow: Poems from the City of Destiny.




Why Are You People So Nice?

óStatement said to a hospice worker.

We see little birds. Our backward
minds wind to them. In still, we
see the slightest noise, the smallest
shake, like flawed arrows circling
toward targets. When people talk
weíre breaking lines, there and
not there, amplified already with a
force that widens the open eye.
When the woman shows us the sun burnt
back of her hands, itís intrinsic
and known, already the scales are
balancing back with ice, weighing
the water, cooling her hands
that start a song in our ears
until they float slantways, featherlike,
into the coldest, bluest psalm.


††††††††††††††††††††††† - Casey Fuller




Confinement in a Strange Hour


Rough sheets all nape.

I cannot sleep through light


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† or, worse, lose track

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† of dreaming,


Covered in heat and waking

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† To rain and broken glass,

†††††††††††††† The gush of the gutter drain outside my window is tropical


And I am


Instantly lush.


The window is resistible.


Today, two days ago, a bear muzzled at either end

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ofthe park.

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† I am no onlooker.


The shade of scalloped curtains

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† gives up everything

†††††††††††††††††††††† haywire---Iíve given up names.


Iíve read of journeys that unbalance the brain,

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† that approximate motion in stillness, always---

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† an exhaustion I couldnít bear.


Iíve seen it on T.V.


†††††††††††††††††††††† So if I desire still water,


†††††††††††††† who can blame me?


†††††††††††††††††††††† And if I canít have it?


Why be contrary? Choose

†††††††††††††† kindness for every disorientation

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† for every state of quake.


If I am missing midnight thereíll be another one tomorrow.


A strange orbit, this retrograde---

†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† The walls shine like marble.



- Trina Burke






I do remember bicycles.

How her bare knees


would bump the handlebars,

then mine.


In the distance, everyone slept,

while we pedaled through curious fog.


There was laughter in that hour

between childhood and grief.


A ha.


But I canít find a trace of her

name in the fading flesh


where hands once etched

rejection. No scar. Look.


Now Iím stretching the skin.

And now


I forget the peculiar way

she must have caught my breath.


- Brian Desmond