The submissions for 2020 (which came from as far away as Doha, Qatar) dove deep into the meaning of place to explore literal, fictional, and metaphorical geographies. Set in locations as different as Oceti Sakowin Camp, Standing Rock, and the lingerie department in Walmart, each poem demonstrated the power of place to anchor us in a shared conversation of what it means to be alive today.

This year’s winning poem, selected by the Zócalo editorial staff, won us over because of the way the poet’s distinctive voice guides us through the familiar scenery of the Southwestern U.S. The poem is a celebration of a person’s girlhood, and how it is shaped by such forces as family, religion, heritage, and location.

We’re thrilled to announce the Ninth Annual $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize goes to Jai Hamid Bashir. Her winning poem, “Little Bones,” combines specific places, such as a payphone in a gas station, with universal themes, such as childhood and growing up, the natural world, and family.

“Bashir’s work is beautiful, particularly in negotiating dichotomies—inner and external experiences, languages and landscapes, and feelings versus walking around in the world as a person,” says Zócalo poetry editor, Colette LaBouff.

Born to Pakistani-American immigrant artists, Bashir was raised in the Southwest and has spent many years advocating for climate justice and land conservation. A graduate of the Environmental Humanities program at the University of Utah, she is currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University in the City of New York. The recipient of the Linda Corrente Memorial Prize at Columbia University and an Academy of American Poet’s University Prize, she has been published by The American Poetry Review, Palette Poetry, The Cortland Review, The Margins, Sierra Magazine, The Academy of American Poets, and others.

Bashir will deliver a public reading of her poem during Zócalo’s 10th annual Book Prize Lecture, which will be streamed online on May 20 at 5 PM PDT. Her poem “Little Bones” is below, followed by a conversation with Zócalo associate editor, Jackie Mansky.

Little Bones

In a chlorinated morning. White, wet noise
is everywhere, so it is endless. After the pool, we echo
for the gas station attendant to use the phone,

Salam. Ma don’t worry. In song of bleach and sun,
we spent an afternoon earnest in the creation
of nests woven from tall grass, netted wrappers
from lunch apples. From palm—to—palm

passing a dying field mouse with the slow
understanding of boudins sharing a spring
in the desert. There was love moving us forward,

interveled like pangs before birth, asking us
to breathe in certain ways. We took it home
and fed it formula with an old baby dropper

in the backyard, until Ma called our names
before the hard vesper air of sunset, before
salat, we set the unsaved animal in the shade

of our family tree—lightheaded in our own
untold plans for eternity.

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