Stacey Barbe, United States's National Honour, September 2026
Stacey Barbe wrote the highest-scoring poem from United States in the Writory International Poetry Contest, September 2026: Her Side of The Bed, scored 83 out of 100 by the blind judging panel across five published criteria. The poem was read in English (Latin script).
Her Side of The Bed
HER SIDE OF THE BED Two little girls splashing through puddles, getting wet, already excited to choose a scary mask, counting down to our birthdays and Halloween every fall. When scary dreams woke me, you'd reach out your hand for me to hold. We put on our slippers, first the right, then the left. At night in our gowns, Mrs. Beasley and Raggedy Ann came with us to bed. You layered your panties before going to bed, stuffed washcloths inside, praying we wouldn't wake wet. We stripped the sheets, but the smell never left the mattress, something clean sheets couldn't even mask. Between us, I built a pillow dam and prayed it would hold. Outside our window, we listened to the autumn rain fall. Sometimes your hand would fall across that pillow dam in our bed. I'd meet you halfway, offer my hand to hold. Most mornings we both woke up wet. We learned early what we had to mask before we climbed out of bed and left. At 15 you lost any childhood you had left. You found a boy and in young love you'd fall, still a child trying on a woman's mask before coming home to a marriage bed, sheets stained beneath you, a different kind of wet and a crying baby placed in your arms to hold. When you were 29, a doctor gave you a shot, and you could not hold on. My little big sister left. I put my arms around your daughter, her face and dress completely wet. I held her close so she would not fall. You lay lifeless in a hospital bed. The guttural screams from my throat my hands could not mask. After you died, addiction became my mask. In the passing years, my numbness took hold. I traded my principles for addiction's bed. I tried to erase the pain of losing you, but it never left. One more hit. One more rock. I'd watch myself fall. My mouth went dry, my face salty and wet. You wore no mask when you came back after you'd left. You sat on my side of the bed, your hand the one I remembered to hold. I lay still, afraid you would fall away. Only my pillow is left wet.
Every country's leading poet each month is named on the September 2026 National Honours. The contest is open to poets in United States and everywhere else: enter the current round, and every poem receives a score out of 100 and a certificate.