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Meet the finalist: Brianna Wright

Birthplace : Victoria Occupation : Student My favourite author : Among many favourites, I love the work of Wayson Choy, Alan Bradley, Jane Austen, Jodi Piccoult and W.O. Mitchell.
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Brianna Wright is a finalist in our So You Think You Can Write contest.

Birthplace: Victoria

Occupation: Student

My favourite author: Among many favourites, I love the work of Wayson Choy, Alan Bradley, Jane Austen, Jodi Piccoult and W.O. Mitchell.

My writing background: My family raised me to love reading, and I’ve been writing ever since I could pick up a pen.

How often I write: When possible I like to write first thing every morning, but I always carry a notebook to jot down ideas throughout the day.

Where I write: At home, at school, on the bus, when out on a walk … anywhere and everywhere.

My preferred style of writing: Any type of fiction, but particularly poetry.

The inspiration for the piece I submitted: Five Seasons came in the wake of many poems written after my grandmother’s death; I hope this version manages to capture an authentic experience of grief.

 

Five Seasons

 

Fall curls on your tongue.

This is the sort of love you wish

you could leave behind:

like the pebbles your mom made you

turn free from your pockets,

those wishstones filched from the bay

on that road trip towards

an adulthood without maps.

You know now that the weight of loss stays

forever heavy: that rock face that grief

carved in your own image.

**

What would you be now if not

for the ocean:

for the neap tide of late November,

for seaweed draped like cut power lines that time

we coiled ourselves in corners,

painting shadows on walls in a dark house

we should have recognized;

we wept while consuming food

about to unfreeze

spitting out pain

disguised as plum seeds.

**

Spring.

Girl falls in love.

Girl gets struck by car.

Car remembers its impact,

grafts her skin to make a ghost.

**

At the end of your life you return

to childhood,

to those mornings cut like prisms

by light through blinded windows.

The beach house.

Those timeless days you,

as if in dream, watched

your grandmother butterfly stroke,

cresting waves made silicate.

She who vowed the lake remained

the one thing she could clasp -

found disaster as inevitable

as clichéd. You who lay

flat on the dock, watched her drown.

Later they commended you

for being brave.