Avery Gendler’s sonnet series was awarded first place in the 2025 Nassau Weekly Poetry Competition. The poems demonstrated not only an innovative style but a commitment to consistent and beautiful language — making the old new again.
Spetses Sonnets
I. Legend
We swim to a cave, underneath
the rock ledge inches
from our heads. Pleasure in the interim
waves, entry and exit
studded with pebbles. Goggles useless
in the dark. The city
hid away in the shallow cavern,
Earth’s ear canal, when the Turks
invaded. But they were betrayed,
found, slaughtered. Fish
cleaned the bones. The other
tale: a man lived alone in that rock cavity,
kept alive by a seal who brought him
little fishes to eat.
II. Order
My friend’s Greek grandfather yells
all day. He draws our dinner table map, orders
the best pork and scolds the boys
for ordering pasta which they eat all
the time back in the states. Not on this island—
his island. We strip off our jean shorts
and swim after cocktails. The sea keeps
on her rippling sequin top. An old woman
walks by with her groceries and no
questions. Mopeds take the corners,
beams curling in and out as boys shout
from back wheels. Sharp consonants
and flat vowels—we curse back with all
we have.
III. Postcard
I don’t know how to comfort
her when she says the world is ending.
We’re on the bathroom floor
in our bikinis and the ocean drains
from her face. I don’t know how to tell her—
she is everything. She tells me her heart
might collapse and dissolve
in all the salt water. She is overcome
by her grandmother, a shell, an unmoored
body without memory. We walk the edge
of the island, low white walls stopping us
from meeting the sea. Waiters set up tables
for late dinners, then smoke. I tell her, after
everyone has left, that I would stay.
IV. Creature of Habit
I vow to stay in the water forever
when I spot the octopus. It pales
and textures, attempts to steal
the camera set on the sandy floor.
In motion, a bullet, ship hull narrowed
to a spearhead. It balloons, blue
tentacles—the hue of the boys’ backs
as they dive under, almost translucent
in the day. It punches schools of fish
that peck incessantly. Bursts
ink at the crowd of fins. Secreted
beak ripping apart the pieces. Reaching—
this wonder—it grabs the wrist
of the one who pulls away.
V. Charades
I’m the one who pulls off
the road on my bike,
the one who notices the dead
kitten on the curb,
shadow fur buried
in sleep. We submerge
only our feet
and bathe our heads
in novels to block
the sun. We mask our dullness
with charades, pull upon others’
phrases, cover ourselves with a bedsheet
to play the game, and attempt to express
it all without a sound.
VI. Fly In Our Butter
I want to take home this pace
without sound: sinking mornings,
late lunch with coffee, another swim,
a nap, poetry aperitif
before dinner well into the night.
My friend plucks the piano’s
fingers, finds her grandmother
when she wanders. Places
her hands on her face: I’m your
granddaughter, your grand-
daughter. Each afternoon
they look through the family
photo album, relearning
names.