Search all Winners

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
…
Next page
Last page

Name Sort descending	Genre	Year
Raymond Abbott	Fiction	1985
Aria Aber	Poetry	2020
André Aciman	Nonfiction	1995
David Adjmi	Drama	2010
Ellen Akins	Fiction	1989
Daniel Alarcón	Fiction	2004
Jeffery Renard Allen	Fiction	2002
Jeffery Renard Allen	Poetry	2002
Mindy Aloff	Nonfiction	1987
Diannely Antigua	Poetry	2020
Will Arbery	Drama	2020
Elizabeth Arnold	Poetry	2002
John Ash	Poetry	1986
Negar Azimi	Nonfiction	2026
Kirsten Bakis	Fiction	2004
Catherine Barnett	Poetry	2004
Clare Barron	Drama	2017
Elif Batuman	Nonfiction	2010
Jen Beagin	Fiction	2017
Jo Ann Beard	Nonfiction	1997
Joshua Bennett	Poetry	2021
Mischa Berlinski	Fiction	2008
Ciaran Berry	Poetry	2012
Aaliyah Bilal	Fiction	2024
Liza Birkenmeier	Drama	2025
Sherwin Bitsui	Poetry	2006
Scott Blackwood	Fiction	2011
Brian Blanchfield	Nonfiction	2016
Tommye Blount	Poetry	2023
Judy Blunt	Nonfiction	2001
Anne Boyer	Poetry	2018
Claire Boyles	Fiction	2022
Courtney A. Brkic	Fiction	2003
Joel Brouwer	Poetry	2001
Jericho Brown	Poetry	2009

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
…
Next page
Last page

Selected winners

Vanessa Angélica Villarreal

2019

Beast Meridian

That I commune with the dead as I oil your feet. My house at the throat of the river, the door to this world, I wait for you. That I ask of the spirit and receive the knowledges: yerbabuena, vela de virgen, baño de alhucema. Cut the joint at the hoof & fatten the soup. Accept this offering, thank the plant. That I love you with the knowledge of our ways lost to violence. That you will call me up from the silt in your bones.

Jose Rivera

1992

Marisol and Other Plays

ANGEL: Here’s your big chance, baby. What would you like to ask the Angel of the Lord?

MARISOL (Energized): Are you real? Are you true? Are you gonna make the Bronx safe for me? Is it true angels’ favorite food is Thousand Island dressing? Is it true your shit smells like mangoes and when you’re drunk you speak Portuguese?

ANGEL: Honey, last time I was drunk…

(Marisol gets a sudden, horrifying realization.)

MARISOL: Wait a minute – am I dead?

Brittany Rogers

2026

Good Dress

UPBRINGING

In an alternate version of this story
I grow up in Denver, Colorado, fenced in
by calcareous mountains and thread-thin air. Who might
I have become had we driven eighteen hours overnight to flee
the Red Zone, Chiron lighting the sky, Detroit’s bass chasing behind?
I imagine Denver homes are large. Ivy clings to the wall
like sap. I imagine I could have walked to school unguarded, no knife
pressed to my ankle in fresh Js my mama wouldn’t buy in the City.

Once the factories stripped the grass of its green, she was willing to leave
her mama on Jane Street and my aunties scattered from Cadieux to Van Dyke.

A diamond band convinced her to stay, but she models
what could still become of me: slips and stockings,
subdivisions, propriety. I could have run when I had the chance
but I’m a daughter of the East Side, that old girl set in her ways.

I grew a mouth like the grown men in my hood. Bouquet of tattoos
across my shoulders. Where brown hair was, a field of watercolors.

Amanda Coplin

2013

The Orchardist

A Novel

There were times when the girls knew where the man was in the orchard, and times they did not. These times they trod slowly and carefully, not that they thought he would harm them—not really—but it had become a kind of game. You might turn the corner into an orchard row and find him there, walking toward you or away, or maybe you saw his legs, his trunk, obscured in leaves.

Carvell Wallace

2026

Another Word for Love

Once, I read a story—or maybe I imagined a
story—of two children ages eight and twelve
discovering the dead body of the grandmother
who was taking care of them. The older child,
a girl, took responsibility then. Feeding her
younger brother, covering the body, keeping
life going, until the smell got too much, and
they asked a neighbor for help. They were, of
course, rescued. But I often wonder what they
were rescued from. It is good, of course, if
they were brought into a place of safety,
steady reliable meals, home, and hopefully
love and care. But somewhere in me the feeling
of hurtling alone is itself the feeling of
home, a human truth the size of the universe,
the size of my mother and me in a motel with
no future to be certain of. I would never want
that for myself or for my children. I would
never want that for anyone. And yet sometimes,
I want it for myself.

Excerpts from ANOTHER WORD FOR LOVE: A MEMOIR by Carvell Wallace. Copyright © 2024 by Carvell Wallace. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All Rights Reserved.