Ahem. See icon.
I really didn't think I would win this year--I thought if I would ever win, it would have been with The Eight Legs of Grandmother Spider last year (it took second place.) I didn't expect anything--it's such an amazing year for the Rhyslings, with so many great poems nominated.
That said, I couldn't make it to Readercon this year, and I joked that obviously, since I didn't go and sit hopefully in an auditorium in a pretty dress, this is the year I'd win. Well then. Lesson noted.
I may or may not have done the Little Miss Sunshine scream in the parking lot. I couldn't possibly say, as it might ruin my reputation for being cool.
Who am I kidding? I am completely not cool. I checked the email three times to make sure I hadn't misread it. This is my first award for poetry, and I still can't really believe I won. The world of speculative poetry has been very kind to me and my often difficult work, and I'm so, so grateful. I kind of want to just hug everyone.
It never ceases to amaze me how far this poem has gone--it's also being reprinted in the Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. I mean, it's a very long, complex, multicultural poem about women's history. I'm proud of it, but I don't always understand why it has such legs.
Anyway, I'm going to keep squeeing in my house and giggling with delight. If you want to read the poem, it's here at Farrago's Wainscot, the wonderful folks who initially published it, and in my new poetry collection, A Guide to Folktales in Fragile Dialects.
Thank you to everyone who voted for it, everyone who has supported my poetic work, Farrago's Wainscot, and justbeast, who when I was blocked and tearing out my hair said: "Hey, why don't you write about devils in Southern California?"